Nothing could be boring as it sounds,
the plains. Here, Comanches roamed a thousand years.
No one was safe. Landing, look out. You'll see
why they rode hard. the two-prop commuter drags
a long, straight-in approach and taxies across flat asphalt
to the shack, a squat brown terminal of mud.
Follow natives strangely in a hurry, a surly crowd,
and find your bags, a yellow cab outside, a skyline
lonely as you've heard, too gaudy wide to be the sky -
more like a laser show in the Astrodome. Nothing
for miles but fields of maize no taller than the car.
The ball-capped driver smokes and flick hot ashes
in the breeze. Ignore the backseat sign, No Smoking.
You'll find me sweating on one of four ball fields in town.
Bring a glove and beware: it's scrub, and we always
need good fielders who can run. You might stick in
a bat, just to be safe. And cleats, don't forget
a good, sharp pair of cleats.
Line Drives
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