bridge

Brickface over running, moving water. Liquid in motion. An arched curve, or a straight back. It will support my weight as I stamp my feet, looking out from this mildly high peak vantage point. Parks are great places to go breathe for awhile. Booth Park and ‘Do Not Feed The Geese’ signs. Softball fields and sunflower seeds. Big League Chew and the togetherness that results in hating the opposing team and trying to curse them with your eyes, mind, and spirit. Clinking of walking aluminum baseball bats. Choking up on it to get a better grip, better control. Dusting off home plate with my cleat, and tapping the furthest edge of home plate; the right-side edge as I extend my arms like a true professional and bring that bat around to prepare for my first pitch for my first at bat of the game. Dad would say, “You hit the ball already. You just need to prove it”. The pitcher might smirk and I would return a menacing look of seriousness. The batting helmet squeezing my head. Nothing feels as good as a base hit and nothing feels worse than a strikeout; A pitch you know you shouldn’t swung at. Not swinging on strike three feels just as bad. A bridge to the past. Mind time travel.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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