Town team.
The local jocks back home in Attica seem more than amply
snug.
At first base, a stomach extends itself to scoop a low throw
like a gun slug from the dust.
The shortstop moves like a sweet fat fairy to his right or left.
His sneakers leaking ball bearings.
Outfielders jog for several days to their positions
pivot like bloated ballerinas, doff their caps.
Then jog for several days back to the dugout.
The infield is a squat and hustle gutted chain.
Round faced and red, it chews its tongue
and spits practically perfect daisies.
The pitcher trembles a mound with a head shake.
He wants another sign.
The catcher wide is a sand crab sweats marbles.
At the plate, a batter settles into his stance
like a tender untapped keg.