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By Vivienne Woodhead

Outside, the chaos of money changing hands,
smell of hot fat, kids drumming on plastic barrels, cans,
discreet scalpers with three down front, want some?
Inside, the mystery
of the still field, open like a chalice.
The pitcher on the mound gathers himself,
a long pause,
lets go
and the batter uncoils
and the ball goes up, up,
past vendors climbing tier on tier
lofting red trays of cola, rafts of peanuts, silver boxes of hot dog suppers,
past the exhortations to civility and moderation—
the use of coarse language will result in immediate ejection from the ballpark

and the crowd begins to pulse
anemone arms rising and falling
harmonized by the play of running men.


VIVIENNE WOODHEAD's poetry has been published in several small magazines and online journals, including The Larcom Review and Exquisite Corpse. When not writing, she runs a market garden, growing organic heirloom vegetables and flowers for the Maynard, Massachusetts, Farmer's Market.

© 2002 Vivienne Woodhead


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