New Season
Snow falls lightly today, 27 days
from opening day, where crowds will
roar and the rookie pitcher will try and stick
at least until the All-Star break.
We live in the minors, faces pressed against
the glass, see our dreams drift and fade.
Take comfort in the small graces, the laugh
of daughters, a good meal, coming in at the beginning
of a movie on TV. Small victories, as the paper
prints the box scores. I’m a career
.220 hitter, never quite up to the task, as I see
your eyes cloud as if I’d stranded runners,
yet again.
Jeff Davis
Back to the Poetry Index
Back to the Main Page