-Pleasant drugs-

A pleasant afternoon for a walk by the river.

Or a drive in the country would be nice;
––Westport, along the beach.
Maybe I'll just stick around the neighborhood,

and take-in a little league game at the ballpark.

The game's probably in the middle innings by now,

but what the hell.

I'll cut through the meadow behind the billboards.

Ah! I can smell Marcucci's Bakery!

I'll pop inside and grab a slice or two.

On the close approach to the ballpark,

the cumulus cloud looming over the backstop

looks like a human head wearing a brimmed cap.

Another one, a feathery, is brushed

over the designated visitor's dugout, looking like

some sort of a fish, but that's a stretch.

A passing motorcycle makes the menacing

roar the biker longs to hear.

Says "Norton" in bold-gold lettering across the teardrop tank.

Yeah. I hear you, "Norton".

The whole fucking neighborhood hears you. Nice bike, though.

Impressive sound. It thunder's its underdog name for all to hear.

Good for you, "Norton"!

I wonder what it is the rider dreams of.

I don’t like the sound of aluminum bats,

that mid-range clink of a note, its weak

reverberation when contact is made, — sounds like

a mid-range note from a xylophone key

when tapped with its muted ball-headed mallet.

Give me the thick, opaque, no reverb knock of the ash

any day of the week.

Two-a-side, top of the 5th,
"Clippers" v. "Comets" and nearing twilight.
The shortstop, hunched and swaying
like a caged pachyderm drones to torment

the "Comet" at the plate: “nobatta'nobatta'nobatta'nobatta'..."

I'll nab a good spot at the fence at the third base line.

Long absorbed into the atmosphere,

the cumulus cloud seen over the backstop

on my approach to the ballpark drifts slowly to mind.

At the top of the fifth, knotted at six, it would be inappropriate

to recall the feathery that looked like some sort of a fish.

Fall River