Frozen in shadow
on the row of sharp flatscreens
which borders the outdoor seating,
the right fielder—
a lone, somber,
perfectly pitched-
forward alphabet letter—
manifesting perfectly
the very first word
known to the world;
while in the sunlit foreground,
we—the sea
of floundering artless spectators,
transfixed
in our unspeakable
wishing to be known
as right fielders, and only
right fielders—
each do our despondent best
never to speak it.
