How strange it is
to have the world compressed
into the parameters of a strike zone.
Bombs may fly; refugees may run,
and congressmen may dither
on the best ways to run the country,
but the only thing that matters
is whether the ball landed fair or foul.
For the length of October,
(now stretching into November,)
we are not ourselves,
but eight year olds
measuring our happiness
by the strength of the starting pitcher’s arm.
We have simplified our complex adult lives
on the green outfield grass of our hopes,
donned our gloves,
stepped into the batter’s box,
ready to escape our troubling realities
upon the arc of a long fly ball to left
“Going, going, it’s outta here.”