Fatherhood seeds the reign of vulnerability:
Steel-toe boots demand calloused but open palms,
and the never-ending inning birthed a gritty bullpen.
They’ve tweaked the mound but it’s always
been like this. Fortunately, when clouds look like
liger cubs, a maple tree can become a barrel,
and is our son waiting to learn a launch angle
previously undiscovered. I’ll remain perpetually short
of declaring war. Boiling rapids for him, downriver
from someone humming Vivaldi.
— KG NEWMAN
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