Finger the stitches, rub the white skin,
Haiti’s women threaded that ball,

Palm it in your boys-of-summer hands,
48 per day, or they don’t get paid.

Swat at it, splinter the bat in your fist
their brown broken bodies are pinched,

Go all the way to home plate today,
Haiti girl raped by Americ’owned MANager,

You take a sip from the dugout fountain,
The women bring their own water to work,

You rise slowly for the seventh inning stretch,
one half-hour break in a ten hour day,

Standing in line at the stadium washroom,
their stench-mud toilet, it doesn’t work

You cheer in summertime sun and breeze,
closed factory windows, no fans to relieve

Hotdog mustard smells, festive in the air,
piss where they work in a bottle by the stair

Your game depends on the magic-threaded sphere,
it’s a life-drain for them, BLESS THE LORD it aint here

Pitch it, swing it, catch it, throw it,
The price for America’s pastime.

first published in The New Anvil and ZNET Creative