Pitching to a chalk-drawn red brick strike zone,
Nodding to the basement window squatting, and
Sending me signals from behind its black face guard
Check the runner leading off from the neighbor's pine
Breath the fresh cut grass, hiding my grip behind my thigh
Squint for the Sun, and whip my curveball, sidearm ~ screaming
Off the catcher's mask and hose bib
Bad hop into the damp and darkened cellarway...
Fifth inning. I'm winning. Game over.
~John Patrick Starling