Poem: The Sad Baseball Frog
The god he does not believe in has never been more absent.
It is not like the time when he thought he saw his father, who had been dead for 20 years, standing in his kitchen in the middle of the night.
But something has grown restless and turned back …
It is nothing he could impart, nothing that even has a name. But the gnaw is enough to tear notches into the strong hearts of oaks rooted forever to the floor of the world.
Clipping old roses from the garden brings him to tears. The skin is mottled not from affliction but from cruelest design. His escaping finger forgets, for a moment, that bones tether it to other bones.
His face is dismal even for a frog’s. Even for an idiot’s. Or a dead emperor’s. His library is but a burnt offering to the man he believes he is believed to be.
He would fear mangling the next grounder, too …
But that suggests an order, a composition, where surely none survives.
(Image courtesy of C.F. Payne, by way of Pitchers and Poets)
1. Scouting Report: Excels at catching flies. Gets a great jump on the ball. Ribbiting to watch.
2. Yogi Berra: “He’s ambidextrous. He can live in the water or on land.”.
Bravo, yet again.
That’s just really good stuff right there.
He’s probably sad because the three hecklers in the stands keep calling him “French Canadian”.
I can’t help but notice that his left hand is significantly longer than the entire glove on his right hand. I’m contemplating whether there was a congenital defect or whether he had the fingers clipped in order to fit in the glove.
Can it be both?
Bravo sir.
Slow clap’d.
Dayn Perry’s unabashed nihilism is one of my favorite things at FanGraphs (Audio) and NotGraphs.
And his faithfulness to this?
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