Monday, October 22, 2007

John Keats, Home Run Hitter


I sit, legs crossed,
pencil twitching, trying
to be John Keats
as three engines thrum,
mechanics sling shouts
over drilling, their voices popping
like 95 mile per hour fastballs
in a catcher’s mitt.
“DIDJA SEE— GAME?”
“— DODGERS BLEW IT!”
“LISTEN— CHOPPY
TRANSMISSION!”
I sit, and swing.

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