Apologies to Frost et al.
Stopping Near the Mound on an April Evening
Whose mound this is I think I know.
His glove is in the clubhouse, though.
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his joyful fandom go.
The goundskeeper must think it queer
To see someone without a beer
Behind the rail that guards the field
A baseball evening's ending near.
He gives the mound a thoughtful rake,
The unfurled tarp a mighty shake.
The only other motion seen -
The Bank is lovely, dark, and sleek,
But I have a fantasy lineup to tweak,
And games to watch before I freak.