Friday Poem

 

 

 

He walked past the houses

Of people who had made it

In this world, and he hated them

With the concentrated hate

Of all his years, with the hate

He held for a third base coach

Who waved him home so that

The catcher was waiting for him

And they sent him down, no

Wheels, the report read, the

Story he said he’d never tell

He walked through the busy town

With his head down and he knew

He could kill them if he had to—

He could surprise them in their

Backyards next to sizzling gas grills

Standing in lines outside football fields

Drinking IPAs discussing what angle

To hit with their irons; he moved

With the madness only he could feel

Till even to him it didn’t seem real.