The Challenge

He steps into the box, 
the wood laying against his shoulder. 
His front foot digs a toehold,
as he readies himself, 
arms twitching,
fingers gripping, 
choking up just a bit on the shaft.
He is always in motion,
picking at his shirt,
waggling his behind,
changing his grip,
altering his stance.
Eyes ever alert, he waits. 
His opponent;
his challenger,
sets,
goes into his routine 
and delivers.
The spinning sphere comes in 
at ninety-eight miles an hour.
The man in the box  
brings the slim rod of ash forward
so fast it is hard to see the movement.
He connects!
It is a screaming line drive, 
right over the second baseman’s head
and all the way to the wall.
A stand-up double!
I love this game!

© Ellie Maziekien

061802

	481. Untitled - June 18, 2002

	Every drop of white
	slowly meanders
	across crevices of golden tan,
	glisteningly sweet
	in the hot sun above.

	The gradual melting
	from frozen coolness
	into a liquid bounty
	is contrasted 
	to the frail crisp of a flesh
	soaked in sugared sweetness
	until it begins to melt
	in the hand
	of the beholder.

	Sharp nips,
	and soft licks
	move the mound of white
	deeper into gold hallows
	until is disappears unto
	a point.

	As the summer sun
	beats down on the heavy afternoon,
	a desparate race between
	taste and time
	ensues,
	ensuring that the ice cream
	is gone --
	remembered only
	by the tasting of smooth
	fingers.