[Ed. Note: We begin National Poetry Month by knowing how the Phillies will verse everyone else.]
In the summer mornings, away on business travel
your co-pilot, in the elevator of the Hampton Inn, will see your workout gear, and say:
"Phillies fan, huh? Tough year!"
to which you will respond:
"Yeah, they're kind of young," and chuckle, all the while wanting to strangle him with bowties made of your middle fingers
and string him up, as a cautionary tale
over the curbcuts of Alpharetta, or Falls Church, or some damn Edge City
built for these caffeinated water-skimmers.
The good news, as you do extra reps, five minutes later: We're getting stronger.
Behold the season of biding our time:
Youthful exuberance, to be sure, but! - also -
foul-tip strikeouts and poor situational hitting and missed signs and blown calls because who cares about the Phillies and dropped third strikes and O! my God almighty the damn plays where they make two more throws than they needed to and cheezit watch the damn runner from third he's going to score! and sigh yep that's how Utley slides I miss him and oh hell did they really fall for the hidden ball trick o dumb dumb bad stupid double steal? really? this guy again? out of the bullpen? why? and Lord it's a throw down to second and
and worse -
Tomahawk-chopping and Let's-Go-Metsing and the Natitude of a thousand vomited past-their-prime cheesesteaks, chunky and swirling and delighting in the ease with which our hearts are stomped, and fragile leads ripped out of our hands, like so many notes held carelessly in the air, on the subway, by 7-year-olds.
Perhaps, as the months go by
Our youth will help us get our edge back; take the bull
by the horns, and stick it to them.
Look for green shoots.
But maybe next year.