Can’t Miss Kris
A Wrigley launch
and hitting cleanup
in an under-construction
ball park with limited
sprinkle the infield
on an occasional Sunday only
due to dictates of my ambivert nature,
I’ll amble down the avenue where I hope
to rendezvous with baseball buddies to
share a few…
Sprinkle the infield.
The Cubs were on the radio, game tied in the fifth. Shiloh lay in late afternoon shade, steadily working a bone. There was a lake breeze, cool and constant. Maybe that’s what excited a squadron of butterflies to strafe me as I sat reading.
Then again, I believe the gods of Old Spice, straight whiskey, and short skirts were so displeased, as to conspire and jointly order those lepidopteron sorties, for I was reading poetry, and, shame of shames, poetry by women.
Shiloh the puppy left field bleachers, then, two blocks from home.