Can a poet make a living,
chasing lines instead of line drives?
Can he make contact with a hot metaphor
or loft a deep poem into the 4th stanza seats?
Can he bat .1000 with his editor and
push forward a haiku down the third base line?
Meanwhile, the pitcher/poet warms up his writing arm
at his desk in the bullpen in anticipation of coming in,
and slamming a verse right down the middle.
The crowd anxiously awaits his first appearance in print,
chanting, “Let’s go poet, let’s go poet.”
The batter/poet steps out of the box,
sharpens his pencils, checks his email.
Then he goes back to work,
spraying his words to all corners of the field.
After the game, young acolytes
gather at the fence to ask for autographs,
waiting for the day when they, too,
will have their chance to hit the long ball poem.