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