Home Run Poem by Val Morehouse

It’s 104° under a dome of sky so white it mugs the eye.
Like Sisyphus you push the boulder
of your body across an asphalt desert
only to find the car door lit like a match
and sizzling to touch.

Into wilted clothing your own sweat seeps and drains
from shade lost somewhere inside your flesh.
Hair crisps then collapses.
And toes, those poor little sausages,
salsa dance on their shoe-shaped pans.

Even your underpants are giving you the wedgie.
Enough. Call time out,
and take a run full-on through life’s
sprinklers for one helluva screaming belly
slide right into home.