She was afraid

and needed me to protect her;

without my sacred dreamgirl

I'd be stuck here all alone

clinging to the memories of what once was,

drowning myself in a TV baseball game

but instead,

I wish and want and desire and lust for

my sacred dreamgirl,

with flowing red hair, a glass of J & B in one hand,

her artwork in the other, or is it mine?



WAIT! STOP!



It's no use; I'm coming back into my lowly existence,

channeling my passion for her into caring

whether or not the Red Sox beat the Orioles.



I wish she still needed me - I need her.

I wish the umpire made the right call - he was out by a mile

It's the same damn thing.



Images unclear, unreal, distant, remote

from me.



Love, a split-fingered fastball, I have neither.



At one time, I struck out Big Johnnie Tardiff

in a little league game



At one time, I protected her



they lost - she left