The Boy Who Bats Alone
First to Arrive
Stretching under fading light,
laces looped, tied up tight,
bat and ball hand in hand
preparing for the game tonight.
Flooded with false foresight
a boy prepares to fight despite
the field being a ghostly grandstand.
When will the team reunite?
On the mound, center spotlight
he practices pitching, deducing the height
and depth of the plate judged as strikeland,
a place surrounded by subjective sight.
Nearly freezing Fahrenheit,
he steps to bat, American’s birthright.
Imagining the cheering fans,
set to blast like dynamite.
Tossing the ball, prepared to smite,
he swung the bat with all his might
doling out fated reprimand,
and making the sphere a satellite.
He played alone into the night
no longer caring or giving a shite,
his greatest game, better than planned,
the sort of story people write.
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