The routine of pitch and catch,
as regular as the early crowd,
eating breakfast at the local diner.
“For breakfast, I’ll have my usual oatmeal.”
The ball whipping around the diamond after a strikeout,
as regular as a kid eating his morning Cheerios.
“For lunch, I’ll have my usual tuna salad.”
Here’s a single, as welcome as
a plate of spaghetti.
Here’s a double, as satisfying as
a plate of mac and cheese.
Here’s a triple, as needed as
a plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes.
“For dinner, I’ll have my usual fried chicken.”
I’ll lash a sundae into the right field corner.
I’ll belt a burger into the upper deck.
Baseball on a sky blue Sunday,
me, with a hot dog and a beer,
an afternoon of food and baseball,
all familiar, all comforting,
exactly the way it ought to be.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME