Rick Smith

You’ve been touched up
and your game’s gone south.
Now you’re just a battered pitcher
in black relief
against the sun blanched corner
at Santa Monica and Western.
A long red light
compels us to watch your wind up.
You pull at your cap,
pound your glove,
check the runners,
shake off signs
and whisper the count
with lips that never stop moving.
You arm wrestle with the wind,
quite delirious with your stuff
and you wait for the medicine to work.
Just like the rest of us.