by March 28, 2008 0 comments

This morning I found
my favorite baseball team
fell from first, spinning
like a plane with one wing.The empty icebox yawns
a cavernous stagnation.The detritus of dead flies
waits for the vacuum
at the store, displayed
on the shelf in a box
so that I might purchase
the thought of cleanliness.In grease pencil, I draw
a scoreboard and bleachers
on the killing window
in the dream of Wrigley Field
and a youth spent shagging
fly balls in Chicagoland.One of the bugs
still has some buzz left,
vibrates on the wood
where the paint flakes,
sill weathered by water
that blows through
the slanted frame.I must go to the grocery,
sometime. Today. Maybe.

Or, at least, get a piece of newsprint—
the sports page I read—
with which to lift the dream
of rising flight off its back
and return it to the outdoors.

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