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!!!
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.