Eighteen dirty children,
Playing in the street,
Shouting, running, sliding;
No sneakers on their feet.

Another day in paradise,
The smog that fills the air;
Seventeen young companions,
A welfare child's prayer.

The sirens scream a warning,
While many run and scatter;
Except for two immaculate –
The pitcher and the batter.

The batter taps his feet,
The pitcher sets and throws.
A crack, a boom!
The batter hits the ground.

The crimson viscous ooze
Flowing from his chest;
Calm, cool and collected
As bystanders and the rest.

The pitcher standing breathless,
His tears fall to the street;
The ball so far behind him,
His brother at his feet.