The slugger hones his craft
A sign, a goal, a vision
Visualize his intuition
Steps to the plate

Settles in, gasps for air and triggers his brilliance
Steps to the plate, an ornery lefty on the hill
Adjusts himself, takes all of the way
Swings next, a menacing crack of the bat

Visualized the distance of his impending blast
Quite the gargantuan tater
A momentous blast, way back, the ball is landing out of sight.
A stunned crowd, and it sailed way over the foul pole in left field

A feast or famine tape measure blast
Slithering wrists, a placid wind, space age precision
and crackling bat 670 ft,
a stadium record and it landed in an apartment bathtub
The ominous age of the tape measure slugger