Reading poems about baseball tonight I thought
I’d toss one in the air and take a swing even after
all these years and living in the wrong country.
Perhaps it’s like riding a bike and the first hit’s a
home run, the second a homespun metaphor,
and there you go: a rhyme gets caught out running
just like the high ball gloved and held in the outfield.
My two voices tag-team an idea trying to steal a base
and it’s another out, only one more left in this innings
where even the hot dog vendor is running out of
mustard. So far it has all been for the big show,
a major league attempt by a minor still at third base
remembering that one call to the pitcher’s mound -
how easy it would be to throw the mitt to the earth.