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Radio Game
By Barbara M. Seagle

There is a song of crickets
beneath the rolling swell
of the crowd.
The evening sky opens,
spilling darkness
over the porch.
Light and avid finches
withdraw; I am alone
with the rumbling
of the night game.

Far from the city,
the lineups, the anthem
emerge from clack and static.
All the big plays, I know,
will be transformed
to frenzied obscurities.
The twitch of forearms,
the burn exchanged
by opposing eyes,
the forward-leaning longing
of the howling crowd
are all present and I, too,
lean into the night.

At the turn of fall,
the season's
hoard depleted,
I take my place
in a home uniform.
Light sways all around me
with an eager green.
On the hilltop porch,
the breeze turns cool.
There are broken
cheers from the crowd
as a bright sphere
shoots into the night sky.i



BARBARA M. SEAGLE credits her father, Bill Mackey, with her lifelong baseball fandom. One of her earliest childhood memories is meeting Dizzy Dean in New York in the fifties. Her poems have appeared in Light, The Comstock Review, and 96 Inc. When not writing or cheering for the Red Sox, she is a pediatrician in Brookline, Massachusetts.

© 2000 Barbara M. Seagle


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