When the autumn sun hangs low
Behind the plate
And pathetic fallacy paints
The suspenseful sky blue
Jaded with tense, clenched fists
Quickened pulse and breath
Fate rests in one man’s hand
And another man’s bat is the
Simple and complex
Prime mover
Three down
Two out
Bases loaded
You leave the pen with a left-hopped gallop
Towards the mound
Towards history, your story
Taunting repetition
And you
With your charm, your eye, your dream catcher
Humble those fair-weather fans
Waiting, yanking out their hearts
Determining
You and your position
Closing down the eighth
You carry more than the ninth on your shoulders
Still you carry it well
And in proportion
To our requisition, your resilience
I wonder what else
Is up your sleeve
Besides magic, three strikes
And a save
~ c.p.grisold
© 2005