Angele Toomey Poetry

At a 20/20 cricket match. Full sun, moderate breeze, fighting the urge to do a parody commentary out loud.

The cricket
They say there's nothing quite like it:
Standing at the wicket
hearing the crack
of leather on willow.

Wasting so much time
litigating a toe over a line
Obsessively predicting cloudy or fine...
And yet, here I am.

Watching humans play whackbat
beginning to wish that
there was shade where we sat
or a newspaper.

Do you remember reading those:
They contained journalistic prose,
stories about despots that rebels deposed.
Now I just have to check an app,
no tactile relationship with
unruly paper on my lap.
But I digress
from match progress.

Back to the action on the grass
wondering how long the batter will last
hearing the crowd having a blast.
At least the shade has finally come my way.