She was winsome,
sitting there in the faded hotel lobby,
of some forgettable Triple A city,
quite young, and very smartly dressed,
tapping delicately on her laptop,
as if there were an important conference
to attend at the local Chamber of Commerce.
She was a major-league beauty,
while he languished without distinction
in the rough-hewn minors of constant bus rides
and fast food restaurants open all night.
But even if he were a major leaguer,
she would remain out of his league,
the difference in years dealing
a death blow to any approach.
He was not so old as to ignore
the curve of her legs,
the swell of her breast.
He continued to look, stare even,
ruing the number of past birthdays.
She was stunning, no doubt.
Win some, lose some.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME