the broadcasted games
played the Muzak of our lives.
A transistor radio blared,
while we ran through stoop ball,
off-the-curb, and, of course, baseball.
We imagined there were little ballplayers
playing on little fields inside our radios.
we as pot-belied old men
sitting on our lawn chairs
in the Florida shade
listen again to the radio,
not as background,
but as highlight of the day.
don’t hear the present hurried announcers,
but the old Southern gentlemen
who spoke as if each word, and each play,
were to be savored over the long, hot afternoon.