Here in the Deep South,
not too far from the Everglades,
heat and humidity hang like a curtain
over the partially-filled stadium.
Everything seems to take longer –
the time between pitches,
the exchange of places after three outs,
the walk to the concession stand for hot dogs and beer.
The fastest people around are the local kids
who scamper from dugout to dugout
for a souvenir ball tossed to them from a good-hearted player
coming off the field after the third out.
Even when the ball is in play,
the pursing fielders seem to move in molasses,
reflecting the game’s pastoral and leisurely roots.
So small is the crowd that individual voices
can be heard urging the Class A team to “Let’s Go!”
And when the game finally oozes to an end,
both fans and players exit with languid grace,
with nothing better to do
until the slow moving clock of baseball
ticks at its own pace, unhurriedly,
to begin another game under a sweltering sky.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME