The Ballpark
The bat cracks, as clean as the break
of a ripe limb from a douglas fir.
Under the lights, the arc of the ball in flight
decorates the night sky.
Shamrock green grass, freshly cut,
leaving lines as sharp as a checkerboard.
This is a lawn. Precise. It stands
as erect and proud as a four-star general saluting
his heroic men and women with a tear in his eye.
The stadium itself, attractive
as a one-hundred-year-old Cathedral in a city where the white money is
going...going...gone.
For these majestic parks are not limited to just baseball.
Grandmothers are happy here.
They become newborn children who never left their crafted rooms.
Here they can see the most perfectly painted
clear blue ceiling.
Oh, what's the score you say?
Ask grandma, she'll probably know.
But baseball is the last thing on my mind.
The park
as clean as the break
a limb from a douglas fir.
Under the the acre
the night sky.
Shamrock green grass
This is a lawn. Precise. It stands
attractive
as a one-hundred-year-old city
going
For these majestic parks
happy here.
the most perfectly painted
clear blue ceiling.
http://home.earthlink.net/~sscutchen/baseball/Poetry/the_ballpark.htm
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