Long ago, in the arcades of Coney Island,
the batting cages beckoned.
You dropped in your quarters,
selected your speed,
and dreamed for the moment,
you were a major leaguer swinging for the fences.
The bat was too heavy, the pitches too fast,
and you flailed with tepid swings,
trying to make contact
with the ball that zipped by
before you saw it.
Now, in the latter innings of my life,
the cage exists as metaphor for
missed chances, and opportunities,
with wild swings hitting nothing but air.
What I’d like is another turn at bat, one
where the sun is shining, the bat feels right,
and I’m twelve again, ready to step up to the plate,
confident this time I’m about to hit it out of the park.