I grew up on vacant lots in the little desert town of Buckeye, Arizona; those bare patches of ground were the places I smiled and laughed the most. We had no boundaries as such, except the daylight; when night came calling, we reluctantly left the game of the day and headed for home. (I don’t think we broke any windows.)
A Game Forgot
Summer day, schoolwork forgotten
Air filled with mindless chatter
Pitcher glares toward home plate
Fielders shout, hey batter hey batter
Ball speeds to the redheaded batter
Louisville Slugger in his grip
Gonna knock that pill outta sight
Trot the bases and give cap a tip
Crack of bat as swing connects
Ball soars high in the air
Cover flutters to the infield
The players, horrified, stare
The sphere unravels as it flies
Crushed by the mighty blow
Over the fence then crashes loud
Through Old Man Wilson’s window
Mr. Wilson looks over his fence
At the quiet…. and empty sandlot
Remnants of a baseball in his hand
Summer day, a game forgot
Copyright © 1998 C. Mashburn
This is one of my older poems, but one of my favorites.
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