Tim Peeler - "Wolfe, Having to Go Home"

For him
The bases were always loaded,
The stadium always packed,
The vendors always rhythmic,
The throngs of Brooklyn
Always the perfect blend,
The gruff and the meek,
Always tuned to a full count pitch,
The ump always rotund,
Slightly cross-eyed,
But fair as the idea of the left field flag
For him,
The pitch was always cranked and leaning,
The hero always a bat crack away from glory,
For him,
The pitches were always wild,
The runners always going,
For thirty-something years,
He never let 'em score,
Kept the game humming
Without letting it move past him,
Never knowing that it wouldn't always last
Another inning.


Touching All the Bases