Another ditty courtesy of my major muse, Insomnia, who brings us those dark hours when ghosts— in this case Lonnie Smith of the 1991 Atlanta Braves — crawl out of their shallow graves to grieve us.
A coon must be prowling round the water garden,
rattling gravel, or else frogs would be drowning out
the barking of that distant dog.
Sometimes with the windows open
I can hear the ocean, but not tonight —
just the whisper of insistent desperate yipping.
Here come the croaks — that’s better,
the hoarse sturm und drang of their desires
seem to trivialize mine.
When’s the last time I let out
a primal scream? Was it in the ’91 Series when
Lonnie Smith failed to round third and score?
Too bad I can’t slam shut my mind
like the lid of a laptop. Too bad Lonnie got deked.
Too bad that was then and now is now.