probertson:

How I like you in green!
Sprouting pale eyelashes
dipped in vaseline;
Salty smile like olives,
teeth arranged like lima beans.
Minty, mossy, 
envious, mean,
I could grow to like it
only if you’re wearing green. 

——-

I can already feel my fingers itching to re-write this one, but for now I am satisfied. Also it’s time to go to bed. The prompt (from 2 days ago!) was to write a poem about a colour.

Strange suffering,
warm bed.
Counting the notches
in your spine
to fall asleep. 

——-

I missed a few days of writing. I’m also not happy with this attempt. Feeling strange today.

I have never been very good at sports. I spent a few summers waiting for fly balls in left field, while simultaneously eyeing the woods behind me for trails to seek out after the game. I was MVP during one game, where I took a baseball to the left shoulder but stayed on through the rest of the innings. Anyway, today’s prompt is to write about Opening Day in baseball.

What the fuck do I know about baseball?

I guess I can’t love every single thing I write all the time. Good thing there’s another prompt tomorrow!

—-

I would love to be the poet laureate of baseball:
to recite silver-tongued stats for rounders,
designated to discover the beauty of the game,
discussing weathered leather, knuckle balls.

I would love to know the catcher’s wink,
the forefinger twitch, 
the suicide squeeze play.

But I know nothing of Mendoza,
or New Jersey, or home.

Or poetry, for that matter.