The weary wander the muddy outfield.
The wary watch from the timid sideline.
The angry run bases, nothing concealed.
The insane riot in stark stands, confined
by iron gratings, electrified to touch.
You crowd home plate, swinging a golden rule.
I’m on the pitcher’s mound, trying to clutch
the Earth with my claws. I’m a trembling fool.
You shout, “Show me what ya got!” I scream back,
“Better watch yer head! Bean ball incoming!”
I whirl my arm, hurl our planet like a sack
of crushed potato chips toward home. You swing
with such ferocity, you scream in pain
and vanish. Silence. Then it starts to rain.
Roger Armbrust
June 28, 2020
