After the Tuesday ballgame
Men linger on the gloaming lot
One foot ahoist to tire or fram.
They grope an ice chest,
Talk up double plays,
Say how transmissions slip
Or gravel scores bring rust.
And from dark inks that seep
The porous boundary trees,
The men beg off in twos or threes,
Switch engines on, blare lights,
Raise grit for home, or just away,
Till one remains to stare low-beamed
Across the tattered playing lawn:
After heavy snows in March
And pelting April rains,
Its low spots will not drain.
They skim his lights like cellophane.
There's comfort in delay.
Baseball & the Lyrical Life. Edited by Tom Colnay.
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