Chasing the Rabbit Ball

The deep need

to point the toe toward the plate,

releasing the pitch toward the pit,

as I consider the fine art

of making surreal threads

for baseballs, scuffing the stuff,

making it real and raw,

a finger food for the not so famous,

keeping the dead ball down,

chastising the ancestors of Curt Flood,

those all diamond decked out

in silver and gold necklaces,

glittering chains telegraphed

for the coming of screw balls,

superstitious as hell,

awaking to the heavenly bells of spring,

where promise is a red bird on a wing ...

Hear the crowd ... Hear it sing!

All you free agents of the mind:

You know I'm no perfectionist

of any kind, only a man struck

by lightning twice

in the minor league

of my own mind,

a simple child ticketed thrice

on opening day