No one lofts a loud out to the left field fencing with its ads for Meacham’s Auto and McClintock Paints. There’s no bravado at the plate at all. No southpaw deals his slider for a strike no one appeals, since no one lent the anthem her vibrato. This afternoon the high, off-tune legato in the stands was only wind on steel. But even though the team’s due back in town tomorrow evening, though a storm is spinning this way now, and though the world’s beginning to dissolve in dust purled off the mound, a patience rallies as the dark spills down another rapture into extra innings.
Copyright © 2018 George David Clark. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Summer 2018.