Mrs. Whitman to her son:
“How come you’re always playing baseball?
So much wasted time, Walt.
Why don’t you come inside,
and attend to your writing?”
Mrs. Collins to her son:
“How come you’re always practicing pitching?
So much wasted time, Billy.
Why don’t you come inside,
and write down some of your poems?”
Mrs. Frost to her son:
“How come you’re always swinging that bat?
So much wasted time, Robert.
Why don’t you come inside,
and decide what you’re going to do with your life?”
Maybe more young poets should listen to their mothers,
thus raising the batting average of the arts.
We deem the flight of a long ball more valuable
than feather-light words that soar for centuries
above the far reaches of the upper deck.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME