Where they pitch and hit poetry and poetry runs,
Where poetry conquers love and love’s sons
In this park where umpires, dressed in black,
Take the time to write down the strikes from way back,
You accumulated the data and wrote it down
Noting how writers would show the players the town
Where all would end up in a tavern of candlelight song,
The newspaper the next morning getting half the lyrics wrong.
I saw the rosters but there wasn’t enough ink
To put in every poem and still have time to think.
You prepared for this season and looked everything up,
Keeping extra pencils in the plastic insignia cup,
The fans forming in long lines among the trees
Wanted their teams to win and sometimes went on their knees
By radio and television and poetry book.
You should have turned back when she made that look,
But you know, I saw her and I saw how she felt.
She cut out an infield for me from an old piece of felt
In the time it took you to go from first to third.
A poem is just a list because I number every word.


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