Holy Sonnet 1

Batter-up to my heart, triple-threat God
you who can hit harder than a slugger
on ‘roids staring down a pitcher who’s got
nothing left in his arm, a hanging curve
looped right over the plate, square up and smash
that tater so that I drop into the
glove of a kid halfway up the bleachers,
the last note of the national anthem still
ringing in his ears. From that, dented and
scuffed, let my heart rest for many years on
a mantle next to other forgotten stuff,
photos and knickknacks and coins, until
you pick me up and put me back in play,
a small white dot in all that green and blue

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