The city has been buried under 28 inches of snow.
I’m thinking about baseball.
My car lies buried by a snow plow.
I dream of green fields and batting gloves.
There’s no food left in my frig.
I salivate over hot dogs and beer.
I stumble in the slush.
I want to slide into second.
In the winter of my discontent,
I yearn for the boys of summer.
Yes, give me
no more snowballs, but fast balls,
no more winter hats, but baseball caps,
no el nino, but the Bambino.
More snow? No Thanks,
Bring on the New York Yanks.
No more winter’s whitish view,
honestly, I’d rather play two.