Sitting Centerfield on the Night Game of Your Suicide

Tonight, no stars, just miles turning
to light years before our eyes: You, on the mound
gesturing home, who cock your head
and flash that crooked grin. Then,
bizarre news: small dogs thrown from speeding cars;
flag-less moons; rhinoceros bones

that come unglued
from dinosaur lies; and
still, devotees, here we are, in our own conspiracy,
caps on tight, hot dog night,
feigning happiness in the bleeder seats.

We know the frivolity of throwing up a glove.
The hollowness of a bad call.
The vanity of trying to run.