would render baseball new
and fascinating and notably odd.
No irrational stress about
who won or lost;
just those little guys on the TV,
dressed so strangely
in their tights and knee socks,
scurrying around willy-nilly,
scampering left and right,
waving clubs,
and throwing a ball around
against a backdrop
of high dazzling lights,
and crowds of people.
The whole scene was
gloriously nonsensical.
I’d turn the sound off
and then sit there smiling
with amused consternation
at this silly, complicated ordeal.
It was summer –
the blazing fastball of heat lightning,
the bat crack of thunder,
and me, clutching my knees to my chest,
alone in the hot night,
high and inside.
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