Cleveland may be a lovely city.
I don’t live there.
Chicago may be inviting.
I don’t live there.
Toronto may call to me.
I don’t live there.
And L.A. may seem exotic.
I don’t live there.
I live in a baseball void,
with no team left to root for.
It’s too early to sit,
huddled in front of the hot stove,
too early to think of spring training,
too early to dream of opening day,
and much too early to get excited by
hockey, football or basketball.
As the leaves begin to fall,
they are still playing baseball somewhere,
only not in my city,
not in my heart.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME