It’s mostly the same:
the pitcher poised and predatory,
the batter fidgety with anticipation,
the catcher and umpire
both squatting and masked.
You barely notice the lifeless
imitation of rooting fans
planted behind home plate,
the soundtrack of phantom
cheers playing on a loop.
It is only with the crackle
of collision, the soaring arc
of propulsion, the hands
raised in triumph, the ricochet
off the vacant bleacher seat,
the camera panned to a God’s-eye view,
that we can see what we’ve lost.
Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer whose poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Orange Blossom Review, Funicular Magazine, and EcoTheo Review, among others. His debut chapbook, I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Find him on Twitter @2glassandrews He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com
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