Young boy
bewildered, bereft,
alone
in center field.
So inconsequential
he casts no shadow
in the late day sun.
Uniform too big.
Glove too small.
Shifts his weight
from one cleated foot
to the other
as teammates taunt
the batter with
Hey batters and Swing batters.
But it is all so far away,
and he prays
please, God,
don’t let it come
to me.
Or, if it must,
if it is your will,
let it be so hard hit that
I have no chance.
And in that entreating moment
he pounds
one fist into his well-oiled
but scarce-used glove,
trying desperately to muster
whatever it is
the others seem to have
naturally.
But all he feels is
out of place,
miscast and adrift upon
the vast and verdant outfield.
The smell of the grass.
The distant shouts.
He is a fly in
a web,
entwined, no hope of escape.
And even now
his doom approaches
with the sound
of the crack and the
hideous inescapable visage,
of a slowly growing
dirty white sphere.