Baseball

Look at you
with all your seams
holding you in to
perceived perfection,
when you’re really a
fat lady in a corset
who’s been rolled.

OK, that may be harsh—
speaking about your physique
that way—but the truth is you’re
caught up endlessly
in a doofuss game
where, more than anything,
you’re hurled like the
regurgitation of a drunk—
one way or another—
a masochist to be sure.

You let yourself be rubbed raw
by a monomaniac at target practice
who’s so fickle he couldn’t care less
when you die of only a dirty face.
He just demands your subservience
of convenience till you’re spent.

Batters want no more than to—
you guessed it—batter you,
and when they’re lucky enough,
from their view,
to do it well,
you become an egg-shaped victim
that ends up in the greasy clutches
of a frivolous collector
and braggart who couldn’t
care less what you’re made of.
Think again about all those times
that you’ve been drilled into the dirt,
stained by the grass,
bunted into ignominy,
tossed around between innings
in brainless ceremony,
and when you show up
at a play of the game
the least bit early or late,
you forfeit acclamation
among the attendees and
divide them between
manic bedlam or abject
depression and expletives.

I can’t help but remind you,
if you’d given more thought
to your shape and exhibited
more patience, you could
have grown into a cannonball
and blown a hole in something.
Even if you’d been only a runt
you could have been a B-B and
blinded somebody in one eye
or at the least hurt a puppy.

Yeah, I know, there’s always
the bean ball, but where’s that
gonna get you with 40,000
people watching?

Not to mention TV.

–Allan Cox