I lace my nerves with pinstripes,
ready for the Yankees,
my early October heartbeat.
but before their first pitch,
I find myself watching the Cubs,
and suddenly it’s grainy afternoons
in the white ghetto of Orlando, Florida,
watching WGN again on stolen cable
my grandmother’s voice rising and falling
with the broadcast and cans of Old Style.
the Cubbies always make me think of her,
how the game felt eternal,
how the slow passing of outs
was an afternoon comfort in the chaos,
like knowing someone would always
be there at the end of the inning.
tonight it’s the Yankees,
but in the static glow of simple ghostly joys,
in which I am a boy again,
sitting next to my grandmother,
proof that the game never leaves you.
with the broadcast and cans of Old Style.
the Cubbies always make me think of her,
how the game felt eternal,
how the slow passing of outs
was an afternoon comfort in the chaos,
like knowing someone would always
be there at the end of the inning.
tonight it’s the Yankees,
but in the static glow of simple ghostly joys,
in which I am a boy again,
sitting next to my grandmother,
proof that the game never leaves you.