By Stuart Shea
A sphere spins towards the head.
A comebacker cracks a pitcher’s skull.
The outfield wall claims another body.
A collision takes out two.
A knee snaps.
A labrum tears.
A dream dies.
It’s a violent game.
Sometimes, it’s a shame.
Published in Free Verse, Players, Stu Shea, The Game Itself, Uncategorized | Link to this poem | 1 Comment