Einstein hated games,
perhaps because the universe
plays for keeps. A curveball
curves and dives only on
Earth, which functions by
its own attractive rules.
That moment after a hometown
hero (last week a goat, love
is relative) strokes a fastball,
rejecting its trajectory, bottom
of the ninth, lasts for a gasping
forever. An entire childhood
passes, then rises into an adult
roar, crashes into stadium space,
assisted by moons of adrenalin.
Everyone, including physicists,
shuffles out, treading on wrappers,
kernels, and ticket stubs,
heavily held to life again,
to the heroism of just getting
by, glued to illusory Now.
hans ostrom 2021
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