In The Smile That Grows Out Of Your Eyes

I am not looking for easy answers; the
despairing photo opportunities of mood,
stage-managed reminders of engineered
existence, cachet caveats that seldom come
cheaper anyway – no I still want to play
broken field. That was where I honed my
skill. I grew my teeth in the rough just off
the hill, beyond view of the stands – not
that you’d notice unless I mentioned it.

I still field fly balls, bunts and chips falling
short of a good length, plundered strokes
meant to make statements, still move with
uncanny grace. Mine has been an ‘in-your-
face’ existence instanced in niggled itches
and pesky quirks that test your patience;
it was meant to be for the answers I seek
are in the curves of your lips, in the smile
growing out of your eyes, enveloping me.
© 27 June 2007, I.D. Carswell