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.