Fine drops of rain
run down like young streams from
plastic summer parkas
down the arms of curved chairs
falling from the hair of
three men in row 38B
in row C
an elegant you face intense
carved mahogany, small rivulets
carelessly sliding from aquiline nose
upon a knee
make random patters
merge with cement water then
continue through the human sea
past soggy red-hots Hudepohl and
staggering shells from peanuts delved
now forgotten in one
unanimous need for sun.
billows of tarp begin to wave
rolling tossing toward home plate
slowly moving to the low buzz-sung
stanza of hawkers, families, fans
a man wearing a blue hat
is on the mound
reds near the dug-out
swing various wooden bats
rhythmic oars skimming water from air
beating the haze clear
at last
high up near the flying flags
sings an accented bird-like voice
"vaya, Perez, vaya"
far below a small voice echoes
"let's go Bench"
sun drenches the stands.
Into the Temple of Baseball
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