1st Inning:
Pulverized pioneer poison
Plummets into the soaked
Whistle wiper of a black n’ gold
Jolly Roger bearer.

The sun’s rays bloom dew onto
The dried leather of a
First row, long-time veteran
Larry, tossing peanut shells.

2nd Inning:
Curdled with care it was,
The climactic American
Commodity cradles secretively
In his left dimple.

Beer brews boldly,
Frothing over logoed lip
And seeping into the concrete
Of Clint Hurdle’s fame.

3rd Inning:
Grass stains are elevator
Jingles, poking joy at the
Young who aspire to dive home,
Parading to automated cheer.

Clubs crack, splintering minds
While foamed frenzy takes a stab.
Daring hands to raise and clap:
The conformity of collaboration.

4th Inning:
The girl with a lilac sun catcher
Chokes on the crack pipe of her
Dad’s beverage addiction,
Learning fear, watching him dissolve.

Tattooed with fandom,
The dried fruit salad
Bicker over stolen bases.
Fireworks cry over their hats.

5th Inning:
Welded together with dental floss,
The enticed minds drool over
The dyed sugar wisps and
The nostril pleasing coated kernel.

Red-laced bird of the wind
Flies frequently past my snout;
Upturned in the heat of the day
To the kings of swift pivoting.

6th Inning:
Devices rise to the wifi kingdom,
Soaking in the sweaty balm burned
Digits bleeding sun-birthed water
Searing the whimpering screen.

Shaded in the dug-out,
Lost causes sit in anticipation,
Resembling the cranky sun-screen
Lathered human in obeyed color.

7th Inning:
Pants stick to the unforgiving seat,
Giving illusion of prepubescent mistakes.
Groans and cries echo from
Split-teething, diaper-wearing young.

Helmets crash into diamond-encrusted
Dirt with crushed dreams of winning.
Marked pants lock into syncopated rhythm.
Well-armed beast requires face-lift.

8th Inning:
Suspense fills the park through
Gluten-grinning grub.
Three dirt kings anticipate
The long lost tree as victim.

Cleats dig into the manicured dirt,
Pants are hiked up to allow for
Olympic sprint to commence.
A pin drops, fans cheer.

9th Inning:
I place my dried cow artifact
Against my chest, raising my cleat.
The Spartan gives me a signal.
The lilac wind reflects onto my cheeks.

I throw the ball into the air.
It ricochets off of my tasseled
Handle bars from my pink trike
and rolls away with a wheel.