Road Series

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ROAD SERIES


Fooled by the Autumn illusion 

of astroturf and the intimacy 

that comes of a shared faith

in the liturgical repetition of a swing, 


in the cage we’d openly confess

our heresies: if you get her close, 

Maddie Warren isn’t actually that hot; 

don’t tell anyone, but

Dr. Wilson has his moments;

all things considered, 

the dining hall hits more than misses. 


It was fodder to fatten us 

for the Spring slaughter, when at 

Kangaroo Court we’d drag 

each other by the proverbial ear

to the back of the bus, 

where four seniors sat the bench

as judge and jury, one by one 

fielding accusations 

of low ERA’s, an overheard

rejection, caught studying

Saturday night, and other mortal sins. 


Such were the observances,

silently taking our sins on our chins

until the air-brakes squealed, 

when battered and betrayed 

we’d tumble out to 

file through the golden gates 

of the Golden Corral, 

where at a giant table 

the lot of us would sit—

starters and bullpen side

by side, accusers and accused

swinging the same porcelain

plate—to share in the feast. 


Still, even after the seventy-seventh

portion, beneath the lowest layer

of our stomachs in a hollow place

we crammed but couldn't quite fill,

something in us knew that this, too, 

was life on the road, 

and if we’d never admit it openly

we were homesick

for a meal like this where 

you didn’t have to play tough

or keep coming back for more. 


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