Pastime

There was a sound like a rush of flames
climbing a diseased femur.

It lasted the length of an exhale.

A pop, a scream, an orgasm,
a pain, a crinkled love letter.

Dandelions withered by the sun’s
radiance added to the cliché.

The smell of recently cut grass of
a little league’s infield and outfield
announced that it was time to play ball.