evening poem, October 17, 2016

 

 

 

The red scoreboard over centerfield

No runs, no hits, no errors

Against a sky just as empty and blue

The outfield grass is perfect

These five weeks after the seasons end

Were enough to heal the bald, dirt scars

Worn in where the fielders always stood.

 

I can almost hear the sounds of the fifty seasons

The crack and now ping of the bat

The whizzing fastball

Infield chatter: hum babe, hum babe

 

Some left a lot of their lives here

At night this place will be haunted.

 

Copyright 2016

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