The Blog

The Art of Self-Hitting

In an empty house,
The poet sits alone
Listening to the still of night
As the plants about him breathe.

He pictures a barren yard,
A boy alone,
With Wiffle bat and ball,
pretending to be accompanied
By a friend.

He sees a crowd in a frenzy,
Popcorn, beer…
As he watches the delivery,
Time freezes.

A tree in center field ties his roots
In a spider’s web and an ant hill’s home.

The batter swings and connects,
The ball flies, the fans cheer,
The sky remains blue,
It is caught,
A can of corn, a routine play, made by a pro.

The gum he chews he found in a pack of cards,
He snaps it and blows a bubble for effect.

It’s still light but the innings mount,
Twilight,
More beer, soda, pretzels,
Smell those dogs –
“Let’s play two.”

Watch him pitch to no one but the planter’s wall.
A strike zone like no other,
Umpired by the same eye who throws,
The same ear who listens,

On the outside corner,
“Strike three!”

– What a game –

“Danny!”

“Darn, dinner’s ready.”

~ Dan Cafaro, July 13, 1992

[Poetry Break Editor Note]

About Dan Cafaro

Dan Cafaro is the founder and publisher of Atticus Books, a small press based in Madison, N.J. When Dan is not following his wife around the country, he is known to sit for long periods of time pondering how to live off the grid. Atticus Review is his first literary journal.

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