The sky’s scrubbed clean
as a five-sided dish.
Birds have returned from the south
and hold loud confabs in the trees.
Moist air is cool and soft
as newly oiled cowhide.
It’s time for cleats to disturb
manicured red dirt.
It’s time to hear the wounds
of wood on horsehide.
It’s time for young men to emerge
from underground into glory.
It’s time
to play ball.
More from Issue #2
Dialogue by Mark J. Mitchell
—There is something you’ve forgotten, my friend. —I know. There was a book. —Yes. Small. Gold-bound. —That’s the one. My father’s first, one he found on some shelf in a sad ruined…
Beach Music by Mark J. Mitchell
She heard a fish song rising out of seaweed. She misunderstood. She thought it called her by name. So she dove in, head first, her good dress ruined. The fish still proclaimed…
23rd St. Works from Home by Tom Pescatore
23rd street fires, cars ablazin’, driver gettin’ his laundry and the story at the taco truck is building with each half known fact/each lie says, “anybody in there?” (the whole car is…
Dreaming of Italian Food by Mark J. Mitchell
you belch low in your sleep, curl like tortellini sauced with purple wool, dusted with cream light falling off a romano moon.