The first part of this poem

is quarantined.  I didn’t

delete it (can’t erase ink anyway)

but I don’t think it belongs in here.

It was my warm up pitch (es).

I’m up against an all-time home run


My fast ball he will eat on the

way by.

Spit out the leather and the

string and say throw another

one, I’m hungry.

My fast ball is a slow ball

tonite.  Sort of a dropper.

But he will smack that one

out of the park, also.

I feel totally inadequate to

face such powerful opponents.

Even when my fast ball is fast.

Well, at least I’m playing &

not on the bench.  Not everyone

gets to play.



Categories: creative, creative writing, Poetry, Uncategorized, writing | Leave a comment

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