The other night I learned what sui generis meant.
And then: schadenfreude.
I even felt schadenfreude when the Republicans couldn’t elect a speaker.
I looked into Marjorie Taylor Greene’s eyes: cold, vacant, hateful, ignorant.
Then I traded her for an outfielder who could also pitch.
……a throwback.
A counterpunch to the abomination of the designated-hitter rule.
But why….?
Why would that thought take me back to the smell of leaded gasoline?
I was young then.
My father’s car had gauges.
Oil, amp, temp, fuel.
Oh, how I envied the way he could understand them.
How he drove with hands gripping the wheel, biceps shaking, the car constantly telling him
……about itself.
Televisions had vertical knobs in those days, in case the picture rolled.
And I remember
One specific roll
A thick black bar divided a pair of infields.
Tersely awaiting the next pitch were the separate halves of Harmon Killebrew.