by Ben H.

Your white grip soft upon my hands,
My fingers imprinted into your delicate handle.
They slide right in like a sword into its sheath.
Your barrel gradually grows, getting bigger, getting better.
Through the good and bad games,
Hitting home runs and ground outs,
Game winners and blowouts.
Swirling you around before and at bat is like a bee buzzing, protecting the hive, the queen, the kids.
You’ve done everything from hittin’ baseballs to whackin’ piñatas.
Others get fancy composite 3 pieces, I’ll just stick with you
And your aluminum shine,
Toned down now by the bruises on your barrel.
You’re a cannon ready to blow,
A tiger waiting to pounce,
Then CRACK you pounce, you blow.
A great hit once again.