I live and die with my Mets.
Presently, they are doing
the dance of death,
wallowing in the nether regions
of last place in their division,
the batter’s box a coffin,
the dugout a mass grave.
These gravediggers have
robbed me of the dream
of a winning season,
testing my unfailing loyalty.
I plan to drape a shroud
over my beloved Mets,
and take comfort
in a chilhood memory,
“Wait ’til next year!”
Yet, in my despair,
I still listen to every game.
I must enjoy my suffering.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME