Box Core

Way up on the third deck

the strikes and balls

are a just a flip

of your emotional coin,

and the money

is miraculous music

jangling all around

like clouds

of mango butter

as the big league batter

dismisses the clatter

and focuses in

on the matter

at hand ...

A tip of the Saint Louis hat:

"A Cardinals fan?" ...

No, not even a fan,

don't even care

about the strangeness

of wings, the meaning

of things, nor the easy

stream of this here requiem,

just my zen baseball box score,

just my need to make

a connection above the war

Curt Schilling's bloody sock

goes up for sale

as his Titanic sinks

into a laundry pile

that hasn't been washed

since two-thousand and four

and now it's dirtier

than nine presidential campaigns

Bobby Valentine's February promises

are set ablaze by a fireball of Yankee

down and outers, up and comers

who have returned in October

in a snail mail of Saturn rings ...

I just can't think

of every thing