Neopoet.com

 
We are ready
at 2:05 P.M.
to waltz through Gate A,
and receive our beach hats
emblazoned with Chief Wahoo,
and the Plain Dealer -
as long as we’ll shill their rag.
This afternoon Joshua and I
are up in section 519,
the nosebleeds,
the cheap seats,
the best part of the ballpark.
I love real people,
and here’s where we’ll find them.
“Get your oxygen tank, son.
We’re goin’ for a hike!”
Really, I don’t know what possesed me
to take the Ontario Street ramp,
but it’s 30 stories up.
Where’s that famed energy I had when I was his age?
It’s right there,
running 25 feet ahead,
and pulling away.
The grandstand levels are assembled
in such a way that look sturdy and out of place
and are suspended
just 10 feet above my head in places.
Oh! If they should fall!
White steel and concrete hold our rebirth together.
You see,
on this little corner
at Ontario and Carnegie
I see the rebirth of my once proud city.
The 1990’s were a flash in the pan,
nothing can survive here on entertainment,
nor $3.75 hot dogs.
Still, 40,000 people in one place
can make me dream of better times.
Last night’s game
featured fireworks set to the Beach Boys.
Unfortunately,
the Indians still lost,
as they did today.
And the hot dogs are still
$3.75.