The Pitch

Photo: Tage Olsin, public domain

– For Len Gasparini

I could have mumbled a poem at you
Easily yet the mornings bring a batter up
That knows little of what a true
Arm presses from pectoralis to wrist
Twisting ahead of a nervous bat
Quickly      adjusting

But my eyes    if you look    know
Like the sound that whips by my ear
My arm a clipping sailing cutter
No one hears

This is not poetry    this is the manner
By which I begin and end
The poem yours   homerun
Slammed back from a 90 foot risk

Laugh and hunker down    Let jokes fly
Into a puddle over the centerfield wall
I will play
Into your bleacher howls.

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