Grooving One: A Sacred Baseball Sonnet

It happens to the best

Pulsonic Baseball Game image by Joe Haput CC BY-SA

Grooving One

by Cosmic Poet Simon Pole

That sickly sound, the hollow pop
When ball against the bat is crushed;
Into the sky its bounding hop
Has all my home-park crowd but hushed.
But not my heart, which crumpled sinks,
And deep the well of dregs sour drinks.
That lifting hit my catcher watched,
His even eyes before me knew
That surely I my slider botched,
But he a new ball to me threw.
How bloody slaughter makes us drip
With each infernal, four-bag trip.
So I will take what God’s washed clean,
And on His wily change-up lean.