The Time of Baseball

The first inning begins

our national pastime of hope,

hope so powerful that we float

up out of our shoes, drop socks

on the seats below, hang shirts and trousers

on a passing foul pole and cavort

stark naked around the American flag.

Down below, the players look like

old-fashioned children politely taking turns.

We remember granduncles

talking pennant races on the porch

and congratulate ourselves

for being born in the time of baseball.

After the last at bat

we hold our breath to forestall descent

but gasping and flapping, we tumble partially clad

into Cousin Katie's backyard barbecue.

At dusk the squiggly kids settle down

like bases on the lawn

while the sporting faithful gather to hear

how we flew and what we saw.

We describe pitch outs, shake offs,

run downs and squeeze plays

in the glorious language of replay

of our once and future game.

April Eiler