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It was the first walk I’ve taken
through the neighborhood
so late in summer without
listening to a ballgame.

Those voices from Toronto,
Cincinnati, L.A.—the waves
of crowd noise cresting—
pass the nights safely.

Junes filled with static,
an old-timer telling
a two-inning yarn,
a team trudging

to the top of the 15th
climbs the steps as I do—
the diamond my cul-de-sac,
the radio a compass, tilting.

 

image: Amy Wheaton


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