THE LONELINESS OF A WHITE SOX FAN WANDERING AROUND WRIGLEYVILLE

After more than a century,
The World Series has returned to this urban enclave
Filled with 20-something Big Ten grads,
In the solar system of sun Chicago.
Lines stretch down Clark to get into every bar In the vicinity.
Mobs own the streets.
Everyone’s plastered head-to-toe in Cubs gear.
Everyone’s plastered on cheap pilsner that’s been krausened,
Or whatever.
Periodic roars erupt from Wrigley.
Your phone is dead, and you don’t know
What’s occurring on the field.
Everyone who’s a WGN devotee seems to know.
Even cops who would normally be stone-faced
Seem giddy, triumphant.
But you root for the alt team, the White Sox,
The Pale Hose.
When these guys from the Billy Goat Tavern pass by
With bags of rancid-looking goat meat,
It seems less freighted with mythology
Than unhygienic.
But you’re not a true believer,
And never will be.
None of this blue-pinstriped pageantry will ever stir your soul.