Destiny took a second swing
at my right hands half pinky last Sunday.
She missed.
Just a slice to short.
Spent some blood.
Left thin knuckle skin
hanging a bit.
Not as bad as the first time!
I was four, watching Little League with Daddy,
sitting in a little wooden folding chair.
An exuberant buddy leaped into my lap,
collapsing the chair,
squeezing the pinky nail and soft foreskin
between the broken braces,
creating a switchblade pinky
with trunkcated tip.

Was I supposed to be
four-fingered -four -year -old- Kenny,
but somehow Fate dribbled a bunt
down the third base line
to squeeze out a single,
missing or ignoring a swing away signal
from the third base god
that would have been a homer into
the right field bleachers?

And what then of Sundays little gouge?
An infielders choice?

And next time?

Will it be a twilight double headers
over done revenge, running up the score,
leaving my arm in a road side ditch
and me snuggled in a coffin,
while long lines of
family, friends and loved ones
parade by, someone sighs,
“Oh! How sad for such a nice guy
to end that way.
I guess we only get three swings.”