Thomas Feeny
Ticket on down
right before spring cuts
salvation is a ball slashed
sharply toward third base
streak on in, knock it down
plastic man you send two
bobbing yo-yos home to mama
and think of buying furniture
till the next sunburnt afternoon
when, on a dust-blown infield
packed like clay, some
dumb pitcher's bunt topped
juicy, slow
suddenly picks up spin, jumps
prayerful leather, skids, rolls
drifts to rest
in short left field
chomping on leaf, you
squirt a jawful toward the stands
hunt your own place to die
Summer Slump
Drenched with sweat
he sits alone in the dugout
finger in his ear
springtime promise now
hefting a bat
badly out of whack
gnawing chaw, hocking
frustration at the moon
he sits there, replaying
the whole nine innings
0 for five
totally bamboozled
No Extra Innings
(After going hitless in six
at-bats for the Roanoke Rapids
Water Fowl-- Class D ball.)
The whole night long
you chase redemption in
one sweet race
atop a phantom baseball diamond
Tattered t-shirt, cap
and cut-offs, sweat smearing
your grizzled chin,
neath the glare of lights
you pirouette down paths
of powdered gold
Crowds cheer
Vendors run out of beer
life is lush, you're on a roll
till cruising around third
you stumble, trip, suck
sand, end up
in a log-jam jamming home
Where their demon catcher's
got your number. Zapped, sacked,
you're blown away. Naw, no extra innings.
Game over, you wake up sopping wet
©2007 by
Thomas Feeny
