Double

Crouching, dangerous.
waving the bat
over his glinting helmet,
he waits,
scanning the field
for any weakness,
any hole
to fill
with his power.

When the coiled arm pulls back
and releases blinding fire
down the narrow lane,

he swings.

The high arc,
bright spot in the dark,
decays and strikes
just within
right field’s highest
limit.

Resting at last,
poised, hands on hips
he surveys the game
from a whole, new
point-of-
view.

poem by Steven Federle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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