I shoulda wore a beard
to be (not) myself.
I stand out,
looking dead to the neck,
sitting in the dugout and scanning the dusty field.
I keep my eye on the pitcher.
My heart is going tight;
tighter . . . too stiff to move. (Weakening.)
I let it get a butchering.
I shoulda got myself outta this.
I never saw such a disgusting joke as myself.
I ask to be a fisher, but He exclaims,
"Oh, old geezer, skinny and bearded,
calm down, ease up, and be quiet.
You've worn yourself to threads."
I belong in an old man's home.
I'm a helluva mess.
I'll ask if he found a damn good joke in me
when I head into The Tunnel.
I was broke in the head and paralyzed,
had rolled "unlucky", with an epidemic of "frightening and hair."
But he laughed,
"Quiet, fisher. You'll pay for your sobbing.
I'm only asking you to give the best you have in you."
I know; think of the future.
I will be in this a long time.
I came for more than the ride
and headed screaming into it.
I won't end this lying in a pool of my own blood.