Another series creeps
to its inevitable end.
The boys of summer
accompany the falling leaves.
We sat on folding chairs
in the home of a more affluent
relative and watched the games
in black and white on a
minuscule TV set
when it was truly
the national pastime.
DiMaggio, Feller,
Aaron, Robinson,
magical names we
all knew and admired.
What’s the hurry?
Tinkers to Evers to Chance,
a balletic pas de trios,
a stolen base,
a well placed bunt,
I remember those days.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME