The Red Sox 2004 Championship Poem

A New Day: Red Sox 2004 World Champions

The ghosts come forward from the Green
Monster like angels in the Field
of Dreams—that lunar eclipse that lasted
eighty-six years has finally been healed
by Damon, Schilling, and the rest.
Our liberty was manifest
when a homer in the first
approached the elemental moon
shattering prehistoric curses
turning night to afternoon.
That’s Johnny Pesky there in left
with Billy Buckner, both bereft
at last of any error, flaw,
or fault with which they were accused.
Bill Lee’s eephus pitch is pardoned;
Calvin Schiraldi is excused.
Mike Torrez doesn’t have a Bucky
bleeping thing to feel unlucky
for. And Ed Armbrister who?
The great Jim Lonborg now can rest
for more than just two meager days
and Grady Little has been blessed
with instantaneous absolution.
There’s been another revolution
here in Boston. Earth has turned
around; the moon is full and clear.
Black holes are turning into stars
within the Red Sox hemisphere.
Horizons find new curvature—
the Red Sox of two-thousand-four.


Update: see my complete Red Sox ALCS/World Series chapblog here.