Once, I hit a home run,

a real one,

that cleared the fence

in a game that counted.

A sucker for the curve,

low and outside,

my signal was to crouch,

take four balls.

I danced off two,

high and inside,

spat in the dirt.

The third left the pitcher’s fist

in an arc that hung

just above shoulder height.

What a feeling it was

to uncurl the bat and swing away,

hear wood crack clean,

launch a comet

blistering through haze,

watch it vanish.

It ruined me,

that errant swing,

for anything but love.


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