Our Love Was Like A 33 Cent Knockoff Wiffle Ball
Poem by Connor Vlieland

October 26, 2013

I was raking today
and came across
a shattered and forgotten knockoff Wiffle Ball
underneath a pile of leaves.

You can probably already see where this is going
but let’s review anyway, shall we?

I remember clearly
it was a couple hours before last year’s Memorial Day party,
I wouldn’t meet you for another three months.

My girlfriend
(you know, the one I walked away from to give us a try)
and I
were at the A&P
in front of a Wiffle Ball display.

To my left
there were official, licensed Wiffle Balls,
each individually boxed, each one dollar.

To my right
there were bags of aftermarket balls,
three for a dollar.

I picked the cheaper balls.
More for less,
and they looked the same,
better, even!

Unfortunately, each time our bat made contact,
the ball would explode
into white plastic shards
that would rain down
and disappoint everyone.

Our love was like a 33 cent knockoff Wiffle Ball.
It was cheap,
it didn’t last,
and it sucked.


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