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.
George David Clark
George David Clark is the author of Reveille (University of Arkansas Press, 2015), winner of the Miller Williams Poetry Prize. He edits 32 Poems and lives in Washington, Pennsylvania.
Date Published: 2018-07-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/loud-outs