The bases not loaded, but could be,
our best hitter coming to bat,
not fourth in the lineup I don’t know why
but seventh, and today two men on
and we can do this–the sun a lemon rind,
the clouds a willow whisp of breeze–
the perfect day for a perfect play
and now he swings, connects,
and I am off as soon as I hear the crack,
but the shortstop snags it,
his throw to first unerring,
and now the throw to second base
quick as light, but I feel quicker,
hear the ball smack his mitt,
the dust rise from his move to the base,
the sound of me slipping under his reach,
and then a billow of everything,
cheers and chaos, dirt and debris
and the umpire shouting way too loud:
You’rre oout! But it’s still a perfect day.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME