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Slave To Baseball

The weather is brave but a slave to baseball,
And I like that kind of weather for this
Time of year,
Because all the aspens are naked, opalescent
And free of the charms of most birds
And tourists-
I can see you there ghostly presumptive,
Making your free-form rounds;
And it is beautiful to think of you disconnected
From the corporeal sounds:
And I wake up more disjointed- the dogs
Have been howling all night,
And I suppose I dreamed of your high-school-
It’s my greatest, most tremulous sin-
Those dysfunctional adolescent currents still
Ripple in my head,
Searching for your illusive resins this way and
That between classes,
But in the here and now I develop new obtrusive
Scars and aren’t you well-situated,
Tucked in for the coming months- and Mike
Is here,
And soon I will be even further down selling
Christmas trees through those sultry paths,
Even further away- I can’t but doubt you could
Hardly remember or even begin to understand.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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