TIMMY

Last night I dreamed I was hanging out with Tim Lincecum.
He was recovering from an injury.
There was a group of us,
In his bedroom,
Boys, empty bags of weed,
Seeds in the carpet,
Things everywhere,
Broken parts of a computer,
Game controllers,
Sleeping bags,
Laughter, but also something uneasy,
Something not quite right.
It was dark,
The pacific northwest.
Outside, just off the front door to the right
Was a baseball field,
Sunny, bright, green
Timmy had pitched here in high school.
I said what he’d done to recover
Was incredible,
But no one said anything back to me.
I woke up thinking,
It must’ve been hard,
To leave all that,
Your friends, the world you know, and love
And pitch in the World Series,
Walking off the mound,
After striking out the last 2 Texas Rangers,
Looking at Nolan Ryan,
And saying,
“Sorry, Nolan”