A Baseball Poem for Walt Whitman

Both In and Out of the Game and Watching and Wondering at It

As if the pitcher threw a strike
and someone in the stands
was swinging.

As if the batter hit the ball
and somewhere in opposing sections of the park,
one-hundred twenty-seven engineers maneuvered
     for the out.

As if the center-fielder lost it in the sun
and seven thousand accidents were happening
throughout the outfield bleachers or within
     the luxury accommodations.

As if the play was close at second
and eleven thousand seven hundred sixty paying customers
began to say their prayers, or chant their mantras,
     or show appreciation to the universe.

As if the umpire called the runner safe and almost
thirty seven thousand maximum capacity attending Sunday’s game
detached themselves from play-by-play
     and saw the grass was green,

the sun was out, the game was just another sports page story,
and the lone statistic having any meaning was the breath,
upon their massive exhalation, that each one inhaled.

~GP2007