You can’t get them to chase a Texas Leaguer,
a cheap flare that drops like a duck
on to the lip of green outfield,
yet they are compelled by The Diamond.
The walls, like our lives, are irregular,
yet in form, how perfect.
There is no scoreboard.
They oil their gloves all winter.
Each spring they cover the hole,
gracefully turn the double play,
above the sliding runner,
plant and throw, mid-air.
They embrace the pick-off,
the ball released to an empty bag.
They have answered the knuckleball’s koan.
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