All poets

Are pitchers of words

The text our goatskin

We heft it

Grind it into the lexical glove

Find the seams

And sometimes with the spitter

Add a drop of perspiration

Some resin smeared on the pants

Then look to the editor who catches

He signals two fingers for a sonnet

We shake it off

So how about blank verse

Hard and inside

My meat

We reach back into the stretch

Our ratiocination

Not too long in case a critic’s on first

No need to give away intentions

Maybe a little bump or tic

A twist in the glove to mystify the reader

Surprise is a must to succeed

Sometimes we play with the strike zone

Stretch the limits of imagination

And when a metaphor falls in the dust

Never try too hard to reuse it

The ump has a lexicon of shiny new ones

Sometimes the best outcome

Is a strikeout

Count my K’s

Some go all the way with nine long innings

Some meditate in the bullpen

Only seventeen perfect pitches

The closer’s neat