The ache in my shoulder,
every night, the game.
In that life, I was, ultimately,
a lefty, wrapping up the start
with ends. Since then, the replays
can’t win against the crap calls
blasting dirt, the eyes that misread hands.
The remains of those endless remains
is the smoke in, the spit in
my glove I kissed, I prayed to,
making my pitch, once more,
for relief.