by John Grey
The kid’s seated on the bench.
His father’s standing in the rickety bleachers.
The kid’s team is trailing by a run.
The father’s screaming at the coach, the umpires,
everybody on the field and in the stands,
to put his boy into the game.
The kid’s small.
Others his own age
are from Brobdingnag
by comparison.
He can barely swing a bat.
His fielding’s more confusion
than skills.
And his pitching arm’s
as limp as lettuce.
And, besides, he despises baseball.
The kid’s praying the coach doesn’t look his way.
The father’s yelling won’t let up.
So the kid’s happy on the bench.
But misery can’t keep his mouth shut.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, and Red Sox fan, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review. Latest books — “Covert”, “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” — are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.
