Brittle leaves dance through
Downtown and scatter
Little League infields where
Ghosts and memories thrive.
The cooling of weather
Brings on a fever
That still refuses to die.
Just short of six months to go,
Still awaiting the first snow,
While highlights reel inside me
A 2-2 count
An insurance run in the ninth—
Can’t you see the excitement?
I try recalling single games, records,
But it all seems to be a mirage, a continuum
Where players and positions, the moments,
End in the same lapse and same stream.
Each player, each team
Desiring October. Rookies (babies)
Who still breathe
Big League Chew or Bubble Yum.
Old cigars. Fresh popcorn.
It’s all an extraordinary mixture.