At a Baseball Game
Leaning forward in my seat,
swallowed in a sea
of raucous fans, I vaguely
feel but do not hear the
organ adrenaline amping up
the festive frenzy, nor do I,
in the curious eye of this swirl,
even see the hurl and swing
that sends the ball over the wall
unleashing fresh pandemonium.
For I am lonely and alone
in this crowd, my eyes fixed on
the heavenly lawn, that
great grassy verdant arc
stretching away before me,
thick spread of perfection,
sharply split this midday into
luscious shade and sunny plane,
as if a forest meadow by spell
had lost its way to end up here,
calling me now to come lie down
upon its bed, alone or, better,
with a lover, where stands
a stoic umpire oblivious
to the magic underneath his feet,
staring off away toward home plate,
hands deep in his pockets.
Were birdsong filling the air
instead of manic music, and
if the groomed red dirt
between second and third
were rather a gentle shallow stream,
this would be my fairyland,
book in my hands, head on
your lap, running my bare
toes through the grass,
warm spine shivers
and your backlit hair,
hidden out in the center of a field
that no one here even knows is there.