Pandemic Baseball

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 ReviewFunicular 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

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