He said that baseball was like poetry, and

Staccato jabberings of the fielders
Are a meter to which the game is played by;
One single play was like one single line;
Each inning its own
Stanza.

He said that the sunflower seeds we spit are
Rhymes, when you let them fly out from your lips
And that each player's glove is a narrative.
That the ball belongs not to whose hand it leaves,
But to everyone in that
Dust.

But he didn't say that careless iambs slung around
Over the shoulder
Would hit me in the face, as a ball would
And make it bruise purple,
All over, marking me-
As someone who didn't have blue-enough blood
And while he watched, everyone called out,
"******."