Pack your bags, fly out of here
Go to hell and stay there.
Let me walk around around the cool shadowy concourse imagining winter
as a hungry depressed bear at the creek's edge, soulfully watching the stadium workers streaming by to waiting buses.
The empty kegs, on trucks, ping hollow as failed hits and runs, the announced batters
as stiff as my achey joints, silently gather their bats and gloves and descend into the dugout
to hibernate, thinly, after a season of runty hunting.
I am not that old, but now old enough
to count the remaining seasons of playoffs on my hands.
Middle age is mostly about not liking what's likely, and
There is nothing left of this horrid Season of Welp.
Before I return home to rake the lawn, pelted by acorns portending bad snowstorms,
I lick the flagpoles that fly the banners of seasons past
hoping to be stuck there forever.