When the snow stays
past its welcome in April,
when flakes flutter over Coors Field,
when snowblowers are needed
instead of rakes, there’s
no snowball’s chance in hell
that the game will be played.
What are the players supposed to do?
The first baseman reaches for his mitt-en;
the second baseman wears earlaps,
and icicles drip from the third baseman’s nose.
Is the batter expected to ski to first base,
and must the pitcher warmup in his parka?
Who is responsible for this careless
misreading of the usual calendar?
The whole world has turned upside down.
We will now have bobsledding in Bermuda,
tobogganing in Tobago and luge in Lima.
The boys of summer have turned into
the frozen figures of winter.
The iceman has cometh to Denver.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME