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Curvature of a Peach MAG
the peach settled in my palm
grass nipped my ankles, pink socks pulled down
I rolled the peach gently between my hands
a sleeping baby swaddled in an orange blanket.
its siblings scattered, plunked softly down
nestled in the green
not far below me I heard
the vroom tuck tuck of Mrs. Wallace’s truck
as it pulled into her driveway.
sitting on the hill, above the picket fence
I could see her slide thump out of the truck.
she stood, (beat), went:
twisting in her yellow blouse,
the fabric grimacing against her,
its taut lines like downturned mouths
as she groped at her pockets.
the peach sat heavy in my hand.
faithful, probably pipe dreaming of
light blue flowers, classical music,
having its guts baked into a pie,
(the kind of stuff a peach would like)
and on went Mrs. Wallace,
puttering up her driveway,
found keys in hand,
her head swaying sideways with the breeze,
looks up sees me,
acknowledges with a puckered lip –
her yellow blouse is creased and sour.
the peach, it exhales softly, whispers
I make my grip firmer,
the peach wants this too.
I wind up and throw,
the wind gusts away from the hill,
joins my side.
the peach flies in an arc
its curvature lets it glide above the fence and
hit Mrs. Wallace –
right on the butt.
(flawless aim, stunning form, strong toss)
the grass kisses my ankles good-bye
as I stand and sprint away,
careful to jump over fallen peaches
the perfect pitch.
I guess I’m the best pitcher in town.