(Eyes wide) a dream breathing—

baseball played with instinct,

by teammates pushed by history.


Once on a summer night

when the moths flickered in the lights

Joe Bathanti came through,

and the runs flowed under lights,

the infield held,

the bullpen had stamina.


But today headlines speak

of dusty fatigue,

sloppy errors, a breakdown,

while the usual down river October teams

scrap and steal extended sun.


In the shadows collect herniated disks,

substance abuse, collapsing knees,

one too many West Coast trip for this blue team.

Once again the tired truth—

whole decades drift to mediocrity


when the final losing slide breaks the will,

and hope becomes cruel illusion.

A shiny trophy prepares to follow the highway

to St. Louis, and points further West,

and good riddance, good riddance,


and move this season to forgotten.

Today a scar regains its color,

and I know I have wasted my love.

Without thinking, I spit,

and kick at the fever wiggling

in the dirt.