Obama's Bat

The president holds a
Baseball bat,
Fist just under the knob,
Veins pulsing, prominent on the back of his hand.
He's not aware he's grasping it so tightly,
Or even that he's holding it at all.
His attention is elsewhere,
A man a thousand miles away in
They are talking about Syria,
Kurdish fighters,
Civilian casualties,
The worries of the world that fall on men like this.
But he does not release his grip,
An autographed gift from a slugger,
Despite delicate diplomacy.
He taps the bat's fat cup on the hard plastic chair mat,
And his mind wanders to somewhere he'd rather be,
The Cell, Nationals Park,
Sneaking a hearty hot dog,
Anonymous, invisible,
Or being the man at the plate,
A pitch heading his direction,
A deafening stadium
And a small child holding his breath,
Dreaming of a smack he can catch.
If only . . .
He struggles to focus on the Prime Minister,
But no matter.
He has his bat,
A safety line to

© Poem Fix 2012
Official White House Photo by Pete Souza

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