To have a winning year,
Taking time by the forelock,
Expecting, as well, the muse
To break into my starting lineup,
Watching the days slip by
Through the choking red dust
Of a Georgian county road,
Waiting for the uniformed Godot,
Seeing him rise slowly
Between green whiskers of spring wheat,
Imminently disappearing
Amidst the brown death of summer heat,
Waiting and watching anyway
Year after year...
Because my Daddy did
While announcers come and go
Like bad business partners
And different players circle the bases
And leave,
Never granting an October,
Never a harvest moon.
Touching All the Bases
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