Baseball Poem

The Closer

"We need to have a talk about the door."
Her venom bared, she sheds her socks, her blouse,
her bra, her pants, then slithers off the floor
and into bed. Her eyes uncoil her spouse.

The hissing message piques his ears. His hair
is shocked erect. His paws are clenched. His back
is arched. He freezes, sizing up her stare,
then creeps up slowly, hungry for attack.

The closer takes the field, immersed in sweat,
the bases loaded, two outs, one-run lead,
the swarming air abuzz about the threat,
the prize so near desire transmutes to need.

He bends and grabs the rosin, throws it down,
then with a long, deep breath, ascends the mound.

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