Baseball Poem

That Home Run Feeling

   by Tim Peeler 

tired and poisoned by yellow jacket stings,
go for a hard run through the ripe dark July night,
strides shortened, quickened,
lap by ill-lit lap
in rain-plowed sand
that tightens a muscle against the pull of a worn shoe,
circling the pale glow of Little League baseball field,
enamored by the plink of metal bats,
the hearty high-pitched cheers,
circling as they circle a tauter diamond
in a high geometry of runs;
eighteen-fifteen the park announcer drawls
and I am drawn to the memory of my own Little League
experience playing that 60's cinema
as I suck humidity by the round ball court
where rapper wannabes
work their slant rhymes and turnover dribbles,
and a tired backboard shivers. 

Leaving now, I consider
the perfect orange moon
hanging for a moment on the light pole
above silent horseshoe pits,
and just for one splendid moment
I have that home run feeling again.

Touching All Bases
   Poems from Baseball
Tim Peeler
www.mcfarlandpub.com