For Tommy Karamazov

I feel it building slowly

in tingling nerves and tendons

left mistakenly for dead:

a wind-up for a pitch

that takes its precious time

so godlike yet innocent

all at once on the mound

keeping the surprise

from the world up at bat

and even the man who's bound

to throw that red-stitched missile

despite his punch-drunk arm

and a strong disdain for baseball.

A few of you might cheer
from the nosebleed seats.