catcher holds his breath above his head,
a 3 count needed to begin the game

breathing down batters’ necks, smelling
odors aromatic, hardballs take aim at
sweaty pitchers of minty lemonade

a series of pitches seriously refreshing,
each more tangy than a baseline drive

raise the level of thirst that cursed
the worst players stuck in fields
parched of dreams

boyish, straining faces dash past bases
to dig the dugout from under mounds of mints

box offices feel the force as fans
whip up a currency commotion, every
denomination worthy of account

owners expect to collect, especially
if bleachers are fully loaded