Outfield has the sweet green smell
of clover until you get close enough
to look for shamrocks and find
you’ve lost the scent and soon
you hear them shouting
screaming and calling you names
because that scary lump of leather
has landed there, a little meteor
nestled like a mushroom in the grass
right next to you.  It could
have landed on your head
but the other players shriek at you
and call you rude names in Spanish
until finally the bell rings
and you know you’ll be forgiven
because you alone know
the helping verbs and nine times six;
they’ll need you until P.E. tomorrow.

© by Tamara Madison.
Used with the author’s permission.