I thought I was going to the museum But then, in the park, a diffuse kind of accuracy grabs me, echoing inside a sharp will, acutely located in an elbow.

A game is being played and, quite uncharacteristically, I gravitate towards the diamond. Sun fleetingly envelopes and expectation sings.

I can't seem to look or walk away, enmeshed in rising vapors of my own past (that fleeting canvas), trying to remember my own muffled attempts at such action.

Possessed I am by question: to whence, in yet-shadowed futures, will lead their experience? What lessons, somewhat roughly eked out of sand, will be carried forwards from today? What notes shall sound out from this fumbled yet endearing orchestra Of a children's baseball game?

Fool; writing poems in two parts while the innings of the day are etched into a dozen memories. Missing the bark of wood on ball, of happening on memory, for the faded report of word on soliloquy.

I thought I was going to the museum But then, in the park, as has happened numerous times in history, a wannabe poet was taught a lesson in humility By kids.

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