I don’t write baseball poems. It isn’t a strength of mine. But, after a sentimental evening with John Prine, friends and my elated husband, I caved and wrote somewhat of a baseball poem for my husband. After, all, they are World Champions. Doesn’t that warrant a celebration? Let me know what you think.
For My Husband, in Chicago, 2016 We sit outside, November cold Sirens sound crowds roar. Red lights flash So I can see your boyhood dreams gaze back at me. Your elbow crooked ball held tight One knee raised. Crack! It hits the peeling boards. Make-believe bases stacked. Stirrrikee Three! Our waiter spies your champion cap, while heated lamps turn winter walks to street parades. From night to day all adorned in blue and grey. River flows under feet. Structures glow in unity and harmonies of crowds still roar like echoes fading more and more. So, we recall, Our Lake Marie. Our flag decals Our passion pleas To dear Abby, Abby, please help us end this dirty, war. Your blue eyes mist. You touch my hand. And we both know who sent the rain. By way of tears, our voices join somewhere between the clouds and ground. Yes, we both know it's heavenly. Susan Ward Trestrail, 2016