i slipped from story books with pictures
into tv without a burp;
from leprechauns and bean stalks to
acme inc. and tasmanian devil.
there were no poets except the silly
“where the sidewalk ends”
but then there were drunks with red cherub cheeks
reading strange verse
spreading joy to everyone at the bar.
they wore a strange, hidden smile about all of this existence.
i’m too pissed off to be a poet.
maybe i should be a pitcher.
*for more on sparring,
broken bats baseball on
the pitcher as trickster