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Ten Little Indians (And Counting)

by James Finn Garner
Ten little Indians–
Contenders every time!
One gets dealt for spending cash,
Now there’s only nine.

Nine little Indians
Playing by the lake.
One’s worth five Dominican catchers.
Now there’s only eight.

Eight little Indians
Hoping they can score.
Half are waived without a claim.
Now there’s only four.

Four little Indians.
At least they have Cliff Lee.
Ooops! Lee’s been swapped to Philly.
Now there’s only three.

Three little Indians
(Not counting Chief Wahoo).
“This is a rebuilding year.”
Now there’s only two.

Two little Indians.
How can they score a run?
One quits to become a fully trained self-employed professional health care technician.
Now there’s only one.

One little Indian.
What an awful pity
If he had to pack his bags
For Oklahoma City.

 Published 8/13/09

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Pale Hose Peavy

by James Finn Garner

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Ken Williams wasn’t skeevy
About getting Jake Peavy.

Though he’s got a bum ankle
And his record should rankle,

He’ll spare us the terrors
Of Jose Contreras.

Published 8/11/09

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Ode to Scott Podsednik

by James Finn Garner

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Scottie Pods, Scottie Pods,
What were the chances?
Oh, what were the odds?

Cut by the Rockies because you’re too old–
Your step getting heavy, your bat growing cold–
The Pale Hose invite you back into the fold
And you climb your way back like the grinder of old.
Fans love a player still hungry and bold
Who refuses to note for whom the bell’s tolled.
In the hot summer night, the scoreboard explodes
As you dig hard to mine one more season of gold.

Scottie Pods, Scottie Pods,
What were the chances?
Oh, what were the odds?

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Posted 8/6/2009

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Pastime

by Casey Hannan

At a baseball game, so high up
the birds seem bigger than the players,
bigger than the crowned lion mascot,
and bigger even, than my expectations,
because, you see, I didn’t root, root, root,
for anyone. The Royals sucked and the
Rangers were visitors, so it was
heresy to cheer when they won, which
I think they did, though it’s hard to
remember when all I see, looking back
through the heat, hazy like it is in a
too hot car, is a crowd of people all
trying not to fling themselves onto
the field, so green you could swim
in it, to cool down to the most basic
part of the experience: American History
and the obligation spun from those pages.

For more of Casey’s poetry, check out his blog, Poetry, DUH.

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Posted 8/4/2009