I played a Peter Criss drum solo
On the metal storm door.
"Can Howie coming out to play"?
The plaxie glass was blaring sunlight and words.
"He's at his Dad's", Mrs. Doing said as I dodged glaze.
I went to the field.
The platform for the ball game lacked the needed supports.
We needed more dresses in shorts.
Sklar, the old 'every-bodies-dog' was dreaming on second base.
We still broke out the bourgeoisie bats for the bout.
Still to few, treading in doubt.
Lively we waited making scars.
Sunny on the field, has all the ingredients for baking stars.
A membership of 'who ever was there'.
Thurston Moore was always welcome to a glove.
Ken Wynn played a lot of outfield.
One of the Barber's played catcher,
And would try to steal your face at second-base.
Tim Light showed but too dressed to play.
"What"!
There's no argyle style.
No seeds of tweed.
No valor in velvet.
"Lose the belt and play for the day".
The wonderment of the lost players that were picked last.
We needed them.
The presents not the tasks.
Even let a kid play that had a cast.
Itchy wisdom, little boy fibs in the grass.
As some bikes rode in adding to the fierce fiesta or fiasco.
The heroes and goats lasted a nights sleep.
The game forgets everything but the rules.
We needed more, but played.
The whole left side was 'out'.
One of the Brads brought a radio and dead batteries.
The crack of a bat or crack of leather were more than enough.
No one left for tomatoes soup and grill cheese sandwiches.
The streetlights were popping like distanced popcorn.
My buddy finally showed up when I was at bat.
I felt great to see him.
And as other's loudly yelled his name, I struck out,
To end the game.
�2003 Daniel J Harris