The World Series (After Game 4)

by Stephen Jones

Maybe it’s too soon to comment . . .

But am I seeing baseball – while entertainment —
Not being played at the highest level meant?

What it might be, I am thinking,
Seems more like two boxers, each hoping
For the other’s over-a-rule stumbling
Or for a pick-off miscalculating.

Each mistake, it seems, wins a round.
The last man standing will hold the ground
In this series of fluke and luck.

 


Published in Boston Red Sox, Free Verse, St. Louis Cardinals, The Game Itself | Link to this poem | No Comments

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