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.