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