North of Saginaw, south of somewhere
Al's never heard of,
a ball club in Michigan
needs pitchers. Pay stinks,
a couple hundred a week.
Seven-hour rides
in a school bus. A junkyard
for old men, their tattered arms;
smoke-throwing kids with no control,
the misfits with the jumpy
eyes of serial killers.
Still grass, lights, applause, him
and the hitter.
In the Garden of Eden,
there were snakes.
Sort of Gone
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