BASEBALL IV

We lost the game, But it was a great game. Slide home. From somewhere else I see my red, round home the way mirrors show Belinda her nose.

What does home mean to you? I’m playing baseball.

No heat, no sun, just breeze enough to fill a field like a balloon, with bits of grass sticking to the plastic. It’s a jam up that everyone likes—like mud on white pants and ice cream glued to your shirt – Home is the baseball field only turned into a collection of stuff that doesn’t move even when it moves, and is mostly in the left hand kitchen drawer Slide that thing open. Days so full, they’re oozing and you want to lick it. God it gets in your stomache then and wont let go. You want to shake it free but free in the way that it sticks around forever. I’m in that drawer too, curled up like a cabbage with the double AA’s and paper clips, watching me swing a bat.

Every house needs a junk drawer.

And we gave it our all, until we couldn’t any more. We went home, then, which

at the bottom of the day is shaded and closed as a cauliflower. Its already evening there, at home

—its ordered alright in ways that things stay if they move but are mostly in the left hand drawer

of the kitchen, where they sit in there but sort of change up how they are. Slide that thing open: looks around with her hungry spider hand or as if a light is stuck at the end of her finger so it rummages in that drawer that’s normally dark but sometimes light. That light could come either from a window—the sun is real, but the window is fake, so are the batteries. In case you wanted to keep track. Home is where the spiders only move to remind you that they mostly don’t. Home is where they cant. I sit still or move, depending on whether the drawer is opened.

Home tends to stick when you try to turn to the next page as if like what the hell these pages are fucking stuck together.