I’m not interested
in your conspiracy theories
I’m mainly focused
on craft beer & baseball
although your fantasies
are intriguing
I’m spending the bulk
of my time
stealing signs &
putting runners in motion
although I admit your
methods are effectively wild
my free time is spent
at the nearest taproom
watching the board
& seriously considering
trading on paper
july two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
going into the eighth
anything could happen
for you see
the fat lady has yet to sing
yogi nods to casey
who pulls the starter
& that’s when it all starts
to unravel
the say-hey kid
dancing around second
in the right field bleachers
all the fans boisterously sing
ninety-nine bottles
of beer on the wall
of course it all comes
crashing down
when mister coffee bounces
into a double entendre
thereby passing the torch
onto number seven himself
june two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
all I wanted to do was play baseball
but world wars got in the way
throwing fastballs & sliders
big fat curveballs exploding in the sky
the airwaves were full of danger
yankees overtaking bases
bearded men in kneehigh red socks
slaughtering the entire field
of course it’s justified by orthodoxy
IEDs & suicide squeezes
inside foxholes older men in uniforms
chew tobacco & flash signs
though they’re waving me in
instincts tell me I must be dead to right
may two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jimmy dugan said it best
about not crying
during a specific activity
I could have used that advice
back when I was a little leaguer
back when real life was
easily distinguishable
from this present day reality
november two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
when running your hardest to first base
you should not go air-bound on that final step
stretching & suspended will only slow you down
that is the simple science of it
yet so few runners actually put it into practice
turning a possible single into an eyelash out
mainly due to a lack of faith
october two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’ve seen this before
it’s what some call a repeat
déjà vu if you will
like a herd of elephants
lumbering across the sky
I’ve seen this before
magically recasted to the TV
runners on second & third
the next three batters
striking out looking
I’ve seen this before
rain falling like stars
washing out the elephants
and delaying the game
probably until next year
august two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
all the seats are empty
but that’s not stopping the runners
on first
& second
from stretching their lead
the pitcher steps off the rubber
and everyone
relaxes
somebody’s yelling ‘cold beer here’
but more than likely
it’s just piped-in recording
from last september
everyone seems to be more focused
than usual
as if some sort of fever has taken
its toll over the game
and each & every at bat
has more meaning
than any year in recent memory
july two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
it’s midsummer on a saturday night
the stadium lights attracting every flying
insect within 500 nanometers
first batter already on first base
thanks to beckert’s fielding error
brock’s not getting much of a lead
but everyone’s expecting him to take off
on the first or second or third pitch
the night’s young & the city’s abuzz
the runner back in motion
light years ahead of jenkin’s delivery
taking with him every intention
of never stepping down from the game
may two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the light continues to reflect off anything
in its path and I’m here to soak it all in
nothing seems to be working
the clocks are stuck again
all within plus or minus fifty years
meanwhile I sit just past third base
drinking old style and keeping score
childhood glove on lap
fly balls nowhere in sight
I’m in the hole
down on one knee
wondering where all the beautiful people go
once the game is over
since there’s nothing left to do
I’m thinking I should go to the beach
maybe put myself under the virtual spotlight
and find out a little more about myself
april two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Bring on the tenth month I say
images of monarch
and ruby-throated migrations
flashing before my eyes
nighttime baseball games
a staple in my foreseeable future
culminating with an enormous
harvest moon slowly rising
It’s the last hurrah you say
sitting cozily by the artificial fire
sipping hot tea from a tumbler
pointing at the Samsung
and dialing up a movie
I nod unconvincingly
retiring to the sunroom
pouring myself a pint of Guinness
reassured knowing
October is just the beginning
september two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
baseball game streaming
live on a.m. radio
I’m in my bedroom
in full uniform
practicing my grip
on brand new ash bat
not too tight but not too light
coach would tell me
you should see how robinson
and aaron and banks get it done
this is all before cable television
and all I got to go by
is how the announcer on the
radio calls it
unwittingly explaining to boys
how men of color
are quietly changing society
one integrated game at a time
june two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’m not going there
she said
can you please change the channel
there must be more to life
than current events
sapping all your energy
we had just sat down
at a local dispensary
having ordered two craft beers
and a bowl of purple sensimilla
the remote control to the TV
directly overhead
within arms reach
what about the Rockies game
I suggested
do you consider pro baseball
current events
that all depends upon who
they’re playing
she answered
not to mention how quickly this weed
will make me not care about anything
april two thousand nineteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
the winter solstice is a week away
yet here am I
sitting in the bleachers with my mother
some forty years ago
watching my brother’s baseball game
it’s late august and it’s a night game
and he’s playing center field
chasing down any fly ball hit
anywhere near his vicinity
and I tell my mother how he
reminds me of Willie Mays
I had a little league game earlier in the day
but I’m still dressed in uniform
dirty pants and dirty face
dirty fingernails and dirty hair
before the sun goes down mosquitoes
land on my tanned and barren arms
and I pinch my skin where they are feasting
until my blood overwhelms their tiny bodies
by the time the ballpark lights take full effect
the temperature begins to dip
lower and lower
until eventually I cross my arms
slightly shivering
are you cold my mother asked me
yes I am I replied
oh my goodness she said
what will you do when winter comes
december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
flashing back to sixty-nine
miracle mets ruining my summer
and the ensuing autumn
forever stamped as an asterisk
in my playbook
in november I received
a green single-speed schwinn
for my birthday
but was forced to postpone
its maiden voyage
until the late february thaw
it was a long and lonely winter
(that much I remember)
and I was afraid
even then
that I was going to run out of time
how little did I know
december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserve
full moon with stitches
off-white and slowly revolving
like a knuckleball
in the alleyways
pick-up games start at daybreak
broomsticks and duct tape
tying run at plate
runners at every corner
bus driver pitching
final shot arcing
sailing over skyscrapers
shooting for the moon
september two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I’m standing fuming on the mound
head looking up and cleats kicking dirt
pissing and moaning underneath my breath
coach and catcher are stepping toward me
the former tapping his left forearm
the latter blowing a bazooka joe bubble
they stop a few feet away from earshot
in order to have a fifteen second conversation
cheers and jeers from the raucous crowd
come in loud and clear
and I can only imagine how they hate
to see me go so soon
I’ve been in town for less than a day now
and already I hate this fucking place
june two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
