November Fifth and It’s So Far Away

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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.

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