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 red/white of their jerseys' wake.

The Bank is lovely, dark, and sleek,

But I have a fantasy lineup to tweak,

And games to watch before I freak,

And games to watch before I freak.