Lost Baseballs

old house

Bess’s yard is the ball field.
A rock or a can or an
extra mitt is a base.
Batter Up!

The ball cracks off the bat
and you run for your life.
But if it goes over their
fence, their fence,
it’s gone for good.

No one dares to ask for it back.
Because they probably eat children.
They probably have a big pot
that they stick you in with
onions and turnips and carrots.

And maybe baseballs floating.
And while you’re cooking in there
you maybe could see one of
your baseballs go floating by.

No one dares to sneak in
and look for our balls.
You wouldn’t find them anyway,
they’re in the pot, waiting.

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