NYC space needs pardoning--

it's all right, come on.

this poem is a shoutout to a ranger

in the form of a boy, by the blessed

name of: Justine.

a ballfield in Queens started kicking

up dust.

my little man became transfixed by

a tennis ball caught in the overhead

link of homebase.

the dome of a link, that so happens

to homerun.

Justine couldn't stand that tennis ball

lodged in that link.

I-I walked up to this very natural athlete,

somehow fathering a boy.

no one stepped up in his moment but me.

he used the availability of rocks, breached

by dust--so i stood up from a bench & politely

asked for Justine's rock.

I had to state: You have it kid, while rapid-firing

the joint of my right shoulder.

leaving our meaningful dent on a number facing a

ballfield.

i gently advised Justine to mount the batting cage.

to retrieve the tennis ball--though it lay at the cusp

of the batting cage.

the coach of his people rightfully came around--

as the stranger of me asserted what I saw in You.

I-I was about to become Spiderman just for you,

as if I was Justine--inspired by Todd Mcfarlane in seventh

grade~