Sitting on the bench, waiting
for my doubtful turn at bat,
I stare out across the old ball field
at the old manufacturing plant,
just beyond the right field fence.
It used to turn out poems,
supplying a living wage
to writers and poets of all ages.
They would have worked for nothing, you know,
enjoying the sunrises and sunsets over the river,
describing various colors of the sky’s palette.
With paper and pen, they carved out
intricate and masterful work,
but now all writing has been
transferred to the city, pulsing
electronically from place to place,
often without any artistic input at all.
The factory and the ball park closed ten years ago,
and my call up to the majors
now seems doubtful at best.