Like players in the bush leagues,
we sit in the dugout waiting
for our turn in the magic circle,
our chance at the plate.
We swing for the fence,
sometimes topping,
but never clearing the wall.
When we steal second,
we always slide head-first,
though the tag is just in time.
And when the ball,
that glorious ball,
flies out of the sun,
we run and stumble,
strain for and almost make
the perfect catch.
No comments:
Post a Comment