NPM 26

(photo by optically active)

Post-Softball 101

I was not made for softball.
My arms are pitiful.
The sun is too bright and
the dirt is more like red sand.

I’m tired as crapolla.
My arm is red as a raviolla
while my glove-hand shines
with the fire of a thousand behinds.

I know this thing is silly.
But I already told you
I’m tired as crap.
That’s why I can’t even rhyme anymore.

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