Once, I hit a home run,

a real one

that cleared the fence

in a game that counted


A sucker for the curve,

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,

hear wood crack clean,

launch a comet

blistering through haze,

watch it vanish


It ruined me,

that errant swing,

for anything but love