by Barry Vitcov.
Before waking from a baseball game
where the right fielder was an amoeba
a limbless organism without arms
playing a position requiring the best arms
in a championship game doing the most harm.
Or was I confused?
Maybe it was a player named Joe Amoeba,
or Mickey, or Willie, or Duke.
What are these cryptic dreams we dream?
I played right field once,
a big mistake:
balls misplayed, rolling between my legs,
bouncing out of my glove.
The coach had to put me somewhere.
It was a rule.
How does Abbey dream?
What do those poodle twitches
and muffled yelps mean?
She’s a pro at fetching,
retrieving and sitting obediently
waiting for another toss.
There are no errors,
only the joy of the game,
no pride or fame.