Home Runs Poem by Smoky Hoss

Her look never varies
always straight on
with world-weary seriousness.
Here comes the wind up, and
the pitch,
like a blazing fastball
she pees in his cup -
The old man
sitting in his ancient easy chair
takes a sip of his coffee
and shouts,
It tastes like piss!
Still watching
the base-runner
breeze around third
at full speed,
as brave and beautiful as
the long gone grandeur of the sport,
they've both forgotten
the last hit
was a foul ball,
but nothing else matters
when for the first time in years
home plate is in sight.
As the runner crosses home,
cheers, high-fives and accolades
all around,
the old-man awakens
(still in his easy chair) ,
looking up through
Sad eyes
he sees her
smiling, standing there
holding out a cup of
steaming coffee;
he shakes off the pitch
and calls the game,
due to rain -