He pounds the dugout
Hoping to shake loose
Grains leaves specks
Something, anything.

It’ll leave a bruise
But he doesn’t mind
Bruises show passion,
At least, for something.

Our souls are bruised
We belong together.
This passion broken mass
That meets weekly,
And groans at itself.

Specks, the lot of us, 
Hunting dust, tracking
The fallout of exploded
Passions. The dust
And grains of a hit.

Published by

Franklyn Monk

Poet. Geek. Science fiction aficionado. General freak.
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