Poem: The Runner, Fearful before Terry Mulholland’s Pickoff Move

I am less runner gaining purchase on inches,
Scant toe-breadths of this game’s soil, the color of punished citrus,
Than I am boat, loosed from moorings and set adrift,
Pushed away from the dock by a careless hand.
A hand that grasps nothing, least of all you.

On my dumbed feet of mud and oatmeal,
I am left to your vacant mercies.

Your leg doesn’t lift from its considered hinge and hang in half-freeze.
Rather, it slides askance and your arm lurches and rises
Like a grouse flushed from brush.
It is quick despite its heavy power to decide heavy things.
And here I am, lost in tangled heaven.

So stop being a dick and pitch the ball.