Francis Scott Key
is just as deceased
as every other body
taking up real estate
in the cemetery
of his namesake
across the street
from the Orioles’
minor league stadium
where this picnic table
well-roofed
by some unspoken carpenter
keeps me dry from the rain
so I can sit and contemplate
such cryptic thoughts
But what does it mean?
Other than serving
the compulsion
to put words on paper
in whatever form
the present scene
happens to shift through my noggin
When I was a senior in high school
after 12 years as a solid player
I was knocked off the mound
and out of the game
in the top of the first inning
during a playoff elimination contest
The single worst performance of my life
bar none
at the most inopportune moment
for both the team
and my fragile teenage psyche
It was the last time I ever
stepped on the field as a participant
It took around a decade
to fully recover
The point is:
every experience decays
back to the soil
where warmth and water
transmute to cultivate
the eternal continuation
through spring fruition
so to in the spirit
where cursed suffering
toils alchemically
in boggy marsh
before rendering blessings
that allow
me to run my mouth
in lieu of tossing baseballs
