A poem is like a ball park
(or is the park like a poem?):
some precise measurements –
the height of the mound,
the length of the base paths,
the size of the ball –
yet each park is its own,
each outfield shaped by
Green Monsters and short
porches; the rules apply and
no two are exactly the same.
The batter who can hit one
out of every three balls is a
success; true, also, of the poet:
one out of three ain’t bad.
And, every so often, the
right words come, lining up
the way Manny locks in
on a high fast one and swings
for the fences, dropping
his bat and watching in
wonder before he runs home.
Pure poetry.
Peace,
Milton
P. S. — There are new recipes here and here.
I think you’re the first person I have seen make Baseball look beautiful. Not quite lovely enough to have any desire to suffer through it, but beautiful none the less!
Go Red Sox! Oh, and Go Milton! (Can you cheer for poets?)
Nice!!