A white sphere arcs summer’s warm air
My hands grip my black metal bat. Arms retract
I visualize a Griffey swing with homerun dreams or
in my fickle imagination, raking the ball into the gap
When teammates borrow my bat, they scorch the pitching.
Ahh, then the anticipated physical betrayal arrives
a conventional groundout. No homers, a rare hit.
Prehistoric combatants hurled stones at opponents
who struck them aside with wooden clubs ~ perhaps the game’s genesis
I singled once. My teammate following, drove the ball to right.
On reaching second, I imagined taking third.
Knowing it would be close, I slid.
Stopped three short feet of safety
I crawled. Wormed the warm earth. Arms wriggled,
extending toward the bag certain the sphere hurtling
the same air would nail me. In that stellar second
my gloved fingers touched sanctuary.
I reached safety. That’s glory. A team celebration follows.
I’m awarded a pair of plastic roller-skates.
If you speed forward things work out with luck.
In death, life continues. Our compositions metastasize.
Achieves solidarity with the universe.
Accepted