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.

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