The Game In Autumn
by Joan Payne Kincaid

    When the world caves in they still play baseball
    in your room rooting for the scruffy ones like
    motorcycle gangs that make the burger-joint on the
    hill-top a place no one wants;
    this one with red beard and long hair: this pitcher
    with look of tango master in his eye of fallen women
    falling through past tense; little underrated legs
    make it home; players slow down in re-plays paralyzed
    as frozen crickets; he grounds out at 7th inning stretch
    like some drunk controlled by another drink to write
    or paint tired raving females without enough hormones
    to climb--the endless cyclic-betrayal-
    porn derivative confessional boredoms.

    Sparrows play hide and seek at porch column
    oblivious to the creeping stalker; it is not play that
    moves your legs to painful studio.

    The trees are flesh shades...ocher, blushers;
    time to funnel breasts in soft pink collisions
    of power struggles; forget the painting's broken glass
    reflecting someone's rage in bed is some safe port
    down stairs to dirt and clutter not quite fathomable
    one way-trips; zapped poems called "typing" hide in magazines
    that love them.

    The light fades without benefit of re-play torn in harvesting
    preserving birthing death double helix fall options,
    not love affairs of remembered painted people
    in head heart and possible soul. What is all
    but archetype touch breath taste sight; perpetual change
    with nights of feeling imperial as a colonizing president
    or worn- out as wolves. It's time to be under falling leaves;
    the light turns suddenly in autumn...a fast-ball low and away.

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