by Casey Killingsworth
There is a name for when rich people can’t decide
which of their houses to drive to for the holiday while
other people are discovering the nutritional value of
poverty, but I don’t know what it is, so I’m going to call it
Sometimes you’re the baseball, sometimes you’re the bat.
When I get to pick the teams, my designated hitter
will be the ball, which most of the time gets
the shit beat out of it, but every once in a while it
sails over the fence and the roar of the crowd erases
the pain as if the bruises weren’t even there.
I wonder why we are all like onlookers in a sideshow,
believing that the snake oil will cure us, but we know
it’s not true, but we still believe it is. We believe it
like we believe that when it’s our turn to bat
the ball will rise up high, high above the cheap seats
and summer homes, and never come back.
About the Author
Casey Killingsworth has been published in Common Ground, COG, Two Thirds North, and other journals. He has a book of poems, A Handbook for Water, (Cranberry Press, 1995) and a book on the poetry of Langston Hughes, The Black and Blue Collar Blues (VDM, 2008). He graduated from Reed College.