WHAT BASEBALL MEANS TO ME

by Zach Fishel

Somewhere in

between the worn edge

of my debit card and bar tabs

sings the sound of an old

guitar leaning

forgotten between

            portfolios and pie charts.

The dust collects

                        as the paint cracks

on every Midwestern

water tower,

                        reaching starward

against this flatness.

            Roaring like the extra

jets arcing overhead,

too many blasts,

            bottles,

            bombings bursting

in bottlenecks as balding

            and half cracked

bells ring out of

their ipods,

            On metro rails, and city subs,

The red and blue lines

pump us through the El or

into happy hours

and coney dogs.  

With the patience

of a forgotten

tree house,

you wait

            for us to remember,

            how to climb

            back to

our thoughts

and prayers,

the quiet little toughness

of deciding to

            cuff that old

bully on picture day.

                        Unless it means

Actually showing up to practice. 


Zach Fishel is the poetry editor for the University of Toledo Press as well as operator of Horehound Press, which specializes in limited run books and broadsides. His poetry has twice received Pushcart Nominations and has appeared in multiple countries. He can be contacted at zachary.fishel(at)gmail.com for all writerly things, especially his chapbook Prayerbook Bouquet.