The stands are filled with
Saturday fans,
fathers and mothers and
remnants of bands.
Their song never quite
catches the beat
as a boy in right field
shuffles his feet.

Socks ever bunching ‘round
ankle and cleat
are old and ill fitting
as angles’ defeat.
His hands ever sweaty,
hoping never to meet
the ball from a hitter
and a face like a beet.

The clouds, ever present,
high soaring above
are captured and held
in the palm of his glove.
Aardvarks and bears
and a whole mess of hares,
all playing in fields of
sapphires and doves.

The bases are flush.
The crowd is now hushed
as the ump has just brushed
home plate from all dust.
The count is now full.
The pitcher now readies
the last of his eddies
as the batter un-dallies.

The boy in right field
hears a crack like a whip
as the ball from the batter
flies like a quip
then gets lost in the banter
of the clouds as they chatter,
and starts crashing t’ward
earth like a ship.

The crowd with a sigh
all follow the missile
then start to whistle
at the boy who’s all bristle.
His red starts to rise
as the ball that he spies
careens from the skies
portending demise.

Hope springs eternal,
so the boy starts to scurry,
though his eyes are blurry,
he seeks to get under
the ball and not blunder;
and taking a breath,
he holds up his mitt,
and prays the ball fits.

The fans are all hushed.
The boy is all flushed,
then the fire in his hand
screams out demands,
“get rid of the sting.
throw that darn thing!”
With a new found spring,
and all of his might,
that ball takes flight.

© rl busséll 2018

baseball field with clouds