The Death of the Ball-Pitching Machine

snowfieldHow like its new-born state, but sans the gleam,
It stood, atop the mound, for any team.
It passed its years of service, fit and faithful, until the day
A comebacker wing-dang-doodled off the front: the exposed face
The linden leaf spot above the heel; and marked it.
Was this the wound that killed it in old age?

Its body left to face the frightful wind and stranger elements, the poor machine;
The poor machine had no soul to see when we went harrowing after it.
There we beheld a giant bound among giants, and he at travelers would cry out:
“That healing archangel, who sold or buried me out of friendship, saved my soul!”
By which he meant: “You must release me!” but the words had not yet been made.
Unmentionable and paternal was he who “from the white city came,”
Announced the gold-eyed keeper; yea, he howled it like a forgotten dog.

Empty-handed, we looked toward the stars and understood.
I cannot this celestial peak surmount.  I hope you are there;
I hope everyone is there, you old machine.

As neither bones nor energy can die,
Then give the solemn funeral the lie.
A change of season attends this fruitless resurrection scheme;
They washed its metal corpse with a hose.

2 thoughts on “The Death of the Ball-Pitching Machine

  1. Damn, I haven’t been around here in a while. I will have to catch up on some of this stuff you have been posting. But first, I must attend to my own selfish posting needs.

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