No poems will come

It’s like hitting a baseball I think.
Today I strike out.
But the crowd in my head!
They’re throwing batteries and pool balls!
A rotund little fella seated behind the first base dugout cries:
“Send in Lorca!”
And the manager, who represents the violent and powerful dead on the bench
Approaches with his odor of blood.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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