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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=572426" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Slave To Baseball</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=572426" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The weather is brave but a slave to baseball, <br>And I like that kind of weather for this<br>Time of year, <br>Because all the aspens are naked, opalescent <br>And free of the charms of most birds<br>And tourists-<br>I can see you there ghostly presumptive, <br>Making your free-form rounds; <br>And it is beautiful to think of you disconnected<br>From the corporeal sounds: <br>And I wake up more disjointed- the dogs<br>Have been howling all night, <br>And I suppose I dreamed of your high-school-<br>It’s my greatest, most tremulous sin-<br>Those dysfunctional adolescent currents still<br>Ripple in my head, <br>Searching for your illusive resins this way and<br>That between classes, <br>But in the here and now I develop new obtrusive<br>Scars and aren’t you well-situated, <br>Tucked in for the coming months- and Mike<br>Is here, <br>And soon I will be even further down selling<br>Christmas trees through those sultry paths, <br>Even further away- I can’t but doubt you could<br>Hardly remember or even begin to understand.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>