The pitches were flat,
the balls inflated,
the repetition was sealed
like the green in the blades
that stained the left hip's
glass. White pants and
a leather glove. Laces
and a lonely dove. Contrition
and the face of a god of a place
without any of the traditional
paternalism or grace. Such
descriptors land on the field
with the fever of a shield in
bloody gourmand. Necessity
is the mother of all tailors.
Close crops make corns for
all the dogs. Might Casey
bike out and decline to
attend? Slight breeze.
Full cart. Solid folded
bills ready to daffodil
at the first sign of
remission.
Roman Ryan 