By Stuart Shea
There is no clock.
The games could last forever,
Even as September suns sink sooner every day.
This is suspended-animation baseball time.
If a team is 30 out, and nobody watches,
Did the game even happen?
Maybe only in your mind,
But this is the best place for a baseball game anyway.
Cups of coffee and last gasps,
Careers come and go in a flash,
Before the eyes of the true devotees,
Miles from a pennant race.
Published in Ballparks, Fans, Free Verse, Players, Stu Shea, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments