The Bases Always Loaded
At Fenway that salt fogged summer
The small boy watches the pitcher poised
the ball always in midair, no one ever scoring
the Redsox way behind as usual, the same derisive
when suddenly a huge insect appears glued
to the backstop, huge beyond belief–spinning:
But it is only the small boy’s schoolmarm
knitting up time again, her sow’s lips pursed
for punishment, for his cutting up:
“’tis tiresome, child, ’tis tiresome”
The boy (bored) overindulges in hotdogs and barfs
them up under the arches along the Charles,
river of discontent
[start action slow motion]
the long summer gone at last, older now
in the back seat of the Chevy with running boards
his hat blows away on Storrow Drive–
No more spitballs. No more teacher’s dirty looks.
Hardball now and Pirates. No longer in the minors.
Gone to his majority. Bases loaded up.
Long since a man, he remains a fan for life
and he hears the deep diapason of his hips
sprocket wrenched by time and he can only see
his toes when he has his trousers rolled.
Fenway again. Same old spiders.