The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Adam Tavel
Ninth Inning Strikeout
There must be some relief in all those boos
that rise and fade as quickly as a sneeze. It’s over now, they sigh, the beer-buzzed fans who toss their greasy nachos in disgust at better, empty seats below. The rich depart, no matter what, before the score burns off the board. They have a night ahead and music for the drive. The slap of gloves tossed on the dugout floor is apt applause for standing numb and peeling tape from wrists while crews behind you jog to rake the clay. They smooth all evidence away. The game belongs to commentators now, throned high inside their booths, who hissed each time you swung. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |