Every Spring
I take the dusty key off the shelf
Insert it in the old wooden chest
Which opens with squeaky hinges
This is my Hope Chest
And piled deep are broken dreams
Heartaches, one-run losses
Scraps of paper imploring
The baseball Gods for a better season
Perhaps a world series
But one can only hope for so much
My paper filled with this season’s hopes
Floats down to join the other scraps of paper
And I lock the Hope Chest
Knowing each season is a new beginning
THE POETRY OF THE GAME