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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