For Poetry Month, I'm going to play a bit. See here:
Opening Day
The kids get out last years gloves
Oil them down, tighten the laces.
Their sliders don’t fit, and
Their cleats give them blisters
And a bit of a shortstop’s strut.
We splurge for new, and
Practice on spring break sand.
The wind serves up a curve ball,
They field, run, strike out until
One pitch. One swing.
The sweet hollow sound of
A home run.
They don the jersey of this year’s hero,
Hoping he’ll put their name on a foul ball.
Climb the stairs to the cheap seats, right field,
Oil hands with hot dogs, perfume with cotton candy,
(or spicy nachos in Texas)
Tuck in the cokes and
Watch the Jumbo-tron.
The line up is set, the crowd ready.
A cub scout color guard, a Vet holds the flag.
We stand for the anthem, proud.
We Are Americans and
This is Our Game.
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