Born to a mom
(But barely a mom)
Raised by her mom
Protected from
The failures of blood.

Soon lost
In chemicals
Seminal
To leaving
But quickly gated
In detention for youth

Where a kid from Racine found
(And gripped tightly)
A semi-orange sphere
That could pull him from here

To Maine or Connecticut,
All over the league,
Finally at rest in South Beach,
Far from his state but
Not far from Racine.

The wheels’ weight rolling atop
The surface
Pushes through the grass
Into the soil
Exposing riches underneath.

Feet—
Trampling on future plants, trees,
Floors, and homes—
Pay no mind to the damage done to treasure.

This rich soil brought them here
And will keep them here forever.

The layers
Building up this body
Of land
Are made of
Sandstone
And limestone,
Orthoquartzitic
And exquisite,
Giving rise
To the three-dimensional
Parties raging
On the surface
That do more than live and die.
They grow and thrive,
Play baseball and drink beer.
For there are layers to this land.

The army of beards and flannel
March in step toward the tree line
To combat the wooden menace,
Leaving ladies and lookers behind.
The loggers line the limited plain
Between themselves and the trunks
Where tooth by tooth they’ll top the trees
To expose the sky far up above.
As limbs and branches crash to Earth
The ceiling starts to expand.
The sun that once was blotted out
Now bathes this unknown land.