Scott Bentley

Broken Posey

—for Buster

“You gotta be a man to play baseball for a living, but you gotta have a lot of little boy in you, too.” ~Roy Campanella

Timber slid, gone daisy cutters

temblor colors always crack
the lilac hills to billiards, daffodil. Blast past a bluish heap
and flutter blushes to the ground. Plains lake the pain

staking out a place. Diamond bridesmaid, embroidery
slacks in uniform. Delicious marmalade that rose butter
ma made such a sweet batter. Nosegays, sugar

snaps a bone, connected
to a pocketful: posse, so

gorgeous, out-

rage, sergeant. After each delirious
bonnet a bouquet. Team captain a clean hit
clock speeds, no

better hitter, pitch. Meadowlark, dove.
Take a stab at the grinder.

My dog, basket
drove off last summer in the clutch, church bells
rung, swung. That corsage a nuanced

bullpen slumps thru June.
A shut out, pinch

runner spans the back steps. Tussle pansies, mudslide
struggle to catch a slice on the noggin. Such courage
in a first hit grand slam, single assists

bloom in Astros, islands
thrown to the stands

in a thrush of stars. A stadium crowd
in a hush, fall
just suppose

an open lane, slots
land a slugger

at an age most men mount
the crotch, shoulder

-to-

shoulder a strike zone. Patch it up
at the park, butch. Under such a character

that rules, busted

balls at game point stems a crush, a key play
curse and cinch the belt. Bolt that leg a stretch
for home, safe, by glove

clover, figures change. As sparrows
charge, a bridge accident:

car nation.