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The Perfect Game

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The Perfect Game

Kenyon Wells

All he ever really wanted
was to play there in centerfield forever,
to roam in the late afternoon shade
when stadiums like Gothic cathedrals
collect light and cast patterns
of holy spirits in mystic profusions.

All he ever really wanted
was for the game to never end,
innings in perfect succession offering
ground outs, line outs, strikeouts, pop-ups,
desperate rallies with towering drives hit deep to the alleys,
to be chased down and effortlessly extinguished.

All he ever really wanted
was for life to be as spontaneous
as a hit and run or double steal,
for life to make as much sense as
inserting a right hand pinch hitter
against a south paw sidewinder late in the fray.

All he ever really wanted
was that continuous sense of order
which only exists between foul lines,
on the pages of neatly scribed scorebooks,
where each decision, motion, and outcome
has a measured consequence and direct responsibility.