pitchin’…

he slept up under a bridge on the outskirts of town that night…used his bookbag for a pillow…sweatshirt for covers…

a storm was brewin’…thunder boomed all ’round and lightening ricocheted in the sky …playin’ duelin’ banjos with the heavens and earth…God was a hell of a picker…

and he slept right through it all…dreams of bein’ on a pitcher’s mound in the big leagues…throwin’ all kinds of junk…sinkers…sliders …knuckle balls…he knew it was just a matter of time ‘fore he was pulled…replaced by a closer…never completed a game…

in this dream he kept strikin’ ’em out…one after another…they’d get up to bat and he’d just mow ’em down…batters would throw their timber in the dugout and curse his name…

seemed like everybody did…an ex-wife he left long time ago…mom and dad who’d grown tired of his antics off the field…bosses at supermarkets and roofin’ jobs he’d had over the years…faced ’em all in the line up…faced ’em all in his dreams…

these dreams of his…vivid and real…like some kinda picture show…a documentary on his life…some kinda metaphor…proof that he’d lived a little…made mistakes along the way…

but…he was able to sleep…slept til the crack of dawn…it’d be a new day…

his sins were accounted for…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s