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Sabrina R. Clarke

Old Ballpark

Gritty dirt of the schoolboy's infield
spoiled and uneven, a pile here
a pile there, tornadoes under his cleats.
Liquid-blue sky a sellout crowd.
Little spikes of grass
by second base, little bursts of static
through "Sweet Caroline" and the smell
of worn leather and alcohol, together and apart.
Chalk lines fading and gone
like contrails in the still sky;
So now fair is foul and foul is fair
all mixed and muddled, but three strikes
will always equal one out.
Minute rifts of air tickling red
pennants, whisper the secrets of boyhood summers-
happy cacophony of metal and hide and sheltered laughter.
Dreams too big and beautiful
to carry with them, scattered
on the dugout floor like crumpled paper cups,
no wind to sweep them up.

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