Poems

  • John Keats, Home Run Hitter

    I sit, legs crossed,
    pencil twitching, trying
    to be John Keats
    as three engines thrum,
    mechanics sling shouts
    over drilling, their voices popping
    like 95 mile per hour fastballs
    in a catcher’s mitt.
    “DIDJA SEE— GAME?”
    “— DODGERS BLEW IT!”
    “LISTEN— CHOPPY
    TRANSMISSION!”
    I sit, and swing.