Out

A swing that delivers 
makes a sweet sound 
mountain ash 
the brandished wood 
strikes at supple spun 
seams and connects 
here comes the kinaesthetic 
for which we have paid:
leather reflexes flash 
the runner’s cleat touches cloth 
torques toward second 
(maybe third)
as another pair of legs
recently grazing on outfield grass 
makes chase/defensive haste 
while our man 
a runner in a dash on a dead run
matches wits with that right fielder’s arm
the pill now passing into his palm 
he rolls it out onto his fingers 
and launches his own pitch 
while our man 
closing in on third 
slides 
spiking dust 
as he must 
into the ump’s eye 
it ain’t a lie 
more like a feint 
a concealment of the ball 
that is now in another mitt 
the dust slowly clears 
revealing that same ump
calm and sage 
a beatific look on his face
as he wipes the dust away 
from the base 
before plucking the mote 
from his own eye 
and not missing the chance
to call our man out.