The Poets at the Ball Game
are not used to such good seats:
behind third base, a perfect view,
outfield grass as green as Lorca's Verde
que te quiero verde. They feel a bit like
Miss Moore, honored by the Yankees in '68
to toss out the first pitch,
dream of "Poetry Day at the Park":
a personalized sonnet for the first
one hundred fans and free haiku for kids.
The crowd raps out rhythms with minibats,
signed by the poet laureate, count iambs
during the caesura of the seventh inning stretch,
recite heroic couplets for the hitter who launches
a long fly beyond the upper deck, filled
with visiting midshipmen, white uniforms a blur.
They cheer with the sound of frothing waves,
a thousand cranes in flight.
A forest of blank pages tossed aloft.
Northwestern University Press
Copyright © 2013 by Reginald Harris
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission