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12 April 2012

American pastime

Red-stitched ball,
your history-written surface
of dirt and grass, saliva worked
by glove and hand,
encapsulates yon halcyon day
buried in Ebbets and others.

Round one-time emblem
of segregation,
race as well as sex,
summer divider,
the smell of the grass to beckon.
Your all-male clarion call
was like rocket ship and polliwog.
These now strew the street,
portents scattered like typeset in mob rule.

Sugar and spice, everything nice,
atop this dirt mound a
last gasp of defense,
we await the inevitable.