Fergie Jenkins rubs the baseball in his hands. I’d felt as if his hands and the ball had understandings to come to. Then he began throwing.
I don’t recall who caught the ball, a small Chicago white
boy not watching TV, I stood at the bottom of the front
at the low wall parting the field from fans, hand in glove
on the home team sideline 6’5” on the warm-up mound
a spell is cast at the fingertips of the pitch
it’s witchery.
When a wand is carved as a club it’s a conductive
baton swung to meet the pitches in this tedious
battle of wizardry
this mayhem joust
this duelism.
I fall asleep and dream and forget me knowing me
a Celtic knot of white denial. I am the drummer, the
drummer is the band; the singer in me hid my beat with words that hit the shark’s teeth. Chummy with my bandmates churns out a hideous miss
mister missus listens to happy hour broadcasts
to the narrowminded likeminded tools like me.
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