Nearly Done With Still
She’s still burnished into me
Like a discolored bruise
Purpled
For over three decades
Over one bad choice
I should have jumped
I should have ducked
I should have bailed out of the box
When I saw that curve
Wasn’t going to break
But I stayed in
How was I to know
The fateful consequence of misjudging
The pitch
That would leave me
Consumed with
Maybes and approximations
For most of my life
We train we practice
We watch we’re coached
And finally alone
Hoping praying
For judgment
For courage
To swing freely
And we still lose
Most of the time
The consequences
For our misjudgment
Generally a few plays away
Mine have remained tender
To the touch
For thirty forty years plus
But the field is being lined
The white chalk powders up along the green blades
The dew silvers on
The warming sunrise
And the morning smells new again
Just like spring training