I pause from scraping frost
off the car, and watch my gray
emissions wisp away
into the chill. I miss strict
seasons, and knowing
what to wear. Last week, it was 72.
When will summer begin
to freeze, and canceled baseball games
are consoled with snowball fights?
People often ask why I love
baseball. I offer a sentimental defense,
it’s peanuts, it’s Baltimore,
I loved it when I was young.
I try to sell them on the experience,
the beer, and the sound of humans
snuffing the lights of summer.
I admit that it’s boring.
I remind them of the beer.
I tell them it’s an honest fact
that people look their prettiest at Camden Yards.
I talk about the thrill of supposed bums
snatching shame back from the night,
and spinning it into mud-rubbed glory.
When all else fails, I explain
how I love the romance of it all.
A game could go on forever,
forever, isn’t that beautiful!
I’m always sad it doesn’t
matter to them.
But it will end, they say,
everything has to end.
My breath rattles heavy with chill,
and my car’s chemicals quail
upward like a fungoed curve.
Christ, they’re right, I think.
Even the best things end.