A rainbow morning,
a winning though small lottery ticket,
a visit from an old, old friend.
Such are the small delights
when the Baseball Gods deign
to ordain a winning streak.
Then there is little I can’t do.
There is little they can’t do.
I am thrilled to see the world
through baseball-covered glasses.
I round the bases of my job;
I throw a no-hitter into the proposal
I pitch to my boss.
I luxuriate in the bright sunshine
that floods the outfield grass.
But I know nothing is forever,
especially win streaks,
so I prize these glory days
until the time they’re taken away,
and my team drifts back to its old familiar ways.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME