Friday's Gone, Sunday's Here

I stand above home plate, bat tight in hand
The outfielders move in right behind the infield.
The doubt belongs not to me, yet fear teases my mind.
Here comes the pitch...
I hold my breath...
The ball is taking forever to get here...
It's close...
I breathe out as I swing...
Coach screams...
RUN!!!
Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

Poem

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