Not Out

by N. McMullin

 

Facing.

The Bowler,

Streaks in.

Long limbed,

Powerful.

With intent, he glares at me.

 

Sweating.

Under my helmet.

I tap my bat.

Raised.

Ready.

Fixated on the Bowler’s hand.

 

An Umpire,

Yawns behind,

Darkened sunglasses.

Bored. Daydreaming.

A seagull cries

From the boundary.

 

The red ball,

Careers down.

An inside edge.

Caught by the Keeper.

They call for it.

HOWZAT!

 

The Umpire.

Stands motionless.

I feign innocence.

He hasn’t heard it.

No finger is raised.

And I silently thank the seagull.