The Hanger
Rules of time and the chronology of it,
When order was a wondrous piecing together,
As the minutes grew into marvelous hours,
And rudiments advanced to triumphant ends,
They took me and delivered me to my fate.
I stood in awe of my mounted accomplishments,
My integrity beyond a questionable doubt,
My up righteous visions fully ingrained,
The rudiments grabbing a hold and leading me,
Sinking into my spongy mind and electric body,
Becoming me, equipped with all the ingredients,
Taking me up to the summit for my crowning,
With perfection waiting at the top of the mount,
Whispering to the ear of my exhilarated heart,
“Perfection is a dream to be seen,
And an all-our effort to fulfill it.
Failure looms ahead from an effort unfulfilled.”
My right arm was an extension of my fortitude,
My insurance that good fortune is mine to inherit,
A dream that became my mechanical reality,
My thoughts that led me to the upper echelon,
My physicality that placed me there,
A reminder that my fingers are all powerful
As they wrap around the baseball,
As my mind takes command of them.
Baseball has never known
A pitcher such as I, destined for
The Hall at Cooperstown, ‘Tis me alright.
My changeup keeps the hitters off stride,
Except the hanger that I left over the middle,
The one that challenged McGregor to hit,
The one that swelled up as big as a watermelon,
That hung over the plate waiting for him to hit,
Daring him to knock it out of the park,
The one that grew a mouth
And started trashing him,
“Hit me McGregor, I betcha can’t.
Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya.”
As McGregor’s blood began to boil,
His big ecstatic eyes glued to the ball,
His internal arsenal stocked with TNT,
His muscles ripping through his shirt,
His belly spewing lava out of his mouth,
The earth shaking from his pounding feet,
He swung with all his might
And sent the ball flying through the night.
The loudness of breaking glass
In the parking lot
Woke me from my nervous sleep.
Alas, my dream showed me
How to pitch to him.
As my dream became an admonition
And transported me back to
Change the course of yesterday’s game,
I gave that dirt bag McGregor nothing to hit,
Nothing in the strike zone,
No changeups, no hangers, no nothing.
“Whatsa matter, little baby?
Too scared to pitch to me?” He blurted out,
As he walked to first base.
Then Wilson, a 145 hitter,
Struck out to end the game.
Yes I was scared, but we won the game,
Didn’t we? 1 – 0.
Thanks to my dream last night
And my friendly supernatural counselor
That hated McGregor, too.
as featured in the "glvwg" anthology book.
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