A Little League Game in Kit Carson Park
Taos, New Mexico
The second inning’s in the books
and the Dodgers trail thirteen-zip.
Their pitcher, stretching every inch
of four-foot-nine, can’t find
the catcher’s mitt and fielders freeze
as Cubs shoot fireballs over heads
and steal bases standing up.
It’s one more massacre.
Yet, without being coached,
kindred folk on the winning side
start rooting for the underdogs:
for Gonzalez slipping off the mound;
for Moya striking out; for Serna, Siler,
Pope misjudging outfield flies.
When floodlights shock the field at 8:15,
the scoreboard blares 18-1.
Mercy on his mind, the ump calls it a night.
Chins up, Dodgers high-five Cubs and parents
march their troops toward ice cream and bed.
Meanwhile, beyond the cemetery fence,
Mrs. Carson sweeps away day’s dust
and Kit hangs up his rifle and buckskin.
They’ve seen games like this before
where numbers belie God-honest truth.
Tonight, as they review each kid passing
through the lights spilling from the field,
they cannot discriminate – despite
distinctive uniforms – who conquered whom.
Previously published in Carolyn Martin, Thin Places (CA: Kelsay Books, 2017).
From associate professor of English to management trainer to retiree, Carolyn Martin has published poems in more than 125 journals throughout North America, Australia, and the UK. She is currently the poetry editor of Kosmos Quarterly: journal for global transformation. Find out more at www.carolynmartinpoet.com.