by Kevin T McEneaney
Watching baseball is like writing a poem.
There are exciting hits or vivid lines….
Minutes may elongate into boredom
for the fan, or poet not scribbling a word.
Ennui, disappointment may dominate.
Innings may go by without any hits.
The poet may abandon his table,
talking to his cat or corner spider.
The player cannot erase an error,
yet poets can correct an awful gaffe.
For both a player and playful poet,
the final innings offer dénouement:
either the humiliation of loss,
or the ball, or the line, that exits the park.