It’s early October now,
and for most of the teams in the majors
the big screen above center field has been turned off.
The seats in the theater of baseball lie empty
with ticket takers and concessionaires
exiting quickly as the last show of the season
ends with a weak grounder to third
and an easy toss to first.
Final credits roll in the booth
as the old manager buttons up his windbreaker.
In his mind he edits the highlights and lowlights
of 162 feature presentation this year,
some shows a comedy, others a horror.
He doubts he will be rehired for
the following year, no worries though.
He looks out towards the darkened screen,
perhaps for the last time, doffs his cap
in genuine gratitude for the game,
and hurriedly walks into the coming winter.
The great stadium sits alone and bare,
a silent movie house now.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME