routine fly at fenway

I ponder if I’m a star to them. Or just unnoticed. Or ignored. Can they even see such a star being from wherever it is they are in the green forest of blades far beneath me?

I lift my lid to cotton candy clouds as this issue I size up and allow my thoughts to marvel at heights. How high up the Green Monster can I arise?

All my surmising quickly cracks away as small ball high aims my very way, along with, I’m sure, everyone’s eyes. Except maybe the ones far beneath.

O’, that the game’s groove may be smooth like the leather on an outfielder’s glove to use. And, O’, that the unexpected may be welcome, like wind’s zephyr to touch a rookie’s face. O’, to be me, along with all these baseball bugs, and somehow, maybe together we’ll reach for the stars to the bleachers’ praise.

Maybe here we all are, looking prayerfully above, the mitt to raise.

But such unwanted tickling insects can distract, while feet can go cleat to cleat upon warning track.

O’ to be such a bug and fly away unseen in such exposed place.

O’, to be a routine fly to fly away, fly, fly away.



Published by Other People's Flowers, 2019

 
Written by Joe Bisicchia on 31/03/19
© 2019 Joe Bisicchia

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