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Ninety Feet
Only ninety feet away, as near as a footprint on the moon.
Second base was Andromeda.
Third was beyond the farthest nebula.
Home plate was through a black hole.
Mostly I swung at air.
The hardball made a thud in the catcher's mitt.
Even my fouls never made it past first base.
Once I lunged at a pitch as wild as my bat
and hit the ball, with my arm not my bat.
I was rewarded by joining the society of hitters,
those who had made it to first base.
I was a gatecrasher with a phony ID,
who soon was tagged out between first and second.
But that was variation,
the theme was measured in counts of threes,
with you stink whispered by eight mouths.
After the last game my dad drove me
but not to the pizza party.
A wordless trip of three long miles,
176 ninety-foot runs
from home plate to home.
Richard Fein (Click for bio.)