I wish I wasn't
but I'm in better shape than Steve these days
my legs mostly work, so does my liver (mostly)
and on good days I remember most things
I dig into the divot in what
used to be my catching wrist
it makes the keypad on the telephone
a bit more formidable than it used to be
but when my digits rest there
in the hole that fastballs dug
it is an indelible reminder
that I once caught for
a chaos god, Eris of the mound
arm unburdened by the laws of physics
untempered by the lash of control
we didn't have radar guns at the ready,
and even if we did, they'd prove ill-suited
like timing a footrace with a sundial
no tool we could build could accurately
gauge or assign metrics to the metaphysical
of what meagre use are miles an hour
when the divine is at play
his left elbow was like a rubber band
he whipped the ball at me as if
there were a yoked ox standing on the plate
a motion so large and monstrous he must've dug
a divot of his own in his right knee
his heater shore the air like a t-shirt bring torn
the sizzle of the pitch's slipstream
brushing your skin like a desert wind
all cowered, few swung
whether the ball ended up in my mitt
or lodged in the links in the backstop
or in the seats behind the dugout
the effect was the same
fear bubbling in you that you
might get in the canon's way
but no one ever did
he lacked malice as well as control
but all it takes for you to sweat
is to have your nose right up
against the bars of the cage
when the mountain lion starts to pace
