The Challenge
He steps into the box,
the wood laying against his shoulder.
His front foot digs a toehold,
as he readies himself,
arms twitching,
fingers gripping,
choking up just a bit on the shaft.
He is always in motion,
picking at his shirt,
waggling his behind,
changing his grip,
altering his stance.
Eyes ever alert, he waits.
His opponent;
his challenger,
sets,
goes into his routine
and delivers.
The spinning sphere comes in
at ninety-eight miles an hour.
The man in the box
brings the slim rod of ash forward
so fast it is hard to see the movement.
He connects!
It is a screaming line drive,
right over the second baseman’s head
and all the way to the wall.
A stand-up double!
I love this game!
© Ellie Maziekien
061802
481. Untitled - June 18, 2002
Every drop of white
slowly meanders
across crevices of golden tan,
glisteningly sweet
in the hot sun above.
The gradual melting
from frozen coolness
into a liquid bounty
is contrasted
to the frail crisp of a flesh
soaked in sugared sweetness
until it begins to melt
in the hand
of the beholder.
Sharp nips,
and soft licks
move the mound of white
deeper into gold hallows
until is disappears unto
a point.
As the summer sun
beats down on the heavy afternoon,
a desparate race between
taste and time
ensues,
ensuring that the ice cream
is gone --
remembered only
by the tasting of smooth
fingers.
(
geocities.com/pdt_bear)