Summer marches on, relentless and thick.
Dauntless and dull, nothing ever quick.
Baseball alone persists, even thrives.
The rest, all still, struggle to survive.
And, pitchers droop low as they grip.
Horsehide roughly scuffed; seams filed down low.
In vain do they maneuver, spitballs to throw.
Hitters await, hungry not scared.
Immeasurable wallop, hurlers they dare.
Fastballs incoming, lest they show.
Fear to the batter, like red to the bull.
Or, sweat to your foe, causes the pull.
Of juices malign.
A swing now on time.
A pitcher’s arm dangling and dull.
The ball arrives, leisurely and fat.
The hitter smiles, he’ll show all that.
His timing sublime.
It’s tape measure time.
Upper deck a deposit with a splat.
The Skipper trudges to visit the mound.
Perhaps one more batter, his bullpen unsound.
To your bag of tricks,
Since he wants to stick.
With his lefty, his ace, to confound.
Next batter, the pitcher, weak at the plate.
Surely his hurler can dominate.
But this time he’s wrong.
His starter no longer belongs.
Another round tripper is his fate.
The pitcher leans forward, all in a slump.
His time is short, here on the bump.
His left arm loses power.