An empty neighborhood baseball
field with weeds tearing through
the sand like index fingers
through the membranes of plastic
grocery bags.
I sit in the bleachers
still silver after all this time.
An old wooden bat
has grass growing through it
making holes and removing the varnish.
A faded banner for a lost team
haunts the back fence,
like a dog tag between the teeth
of a dead warrior.
A catcher’s mask is nailed to a post
way out in right field
where the scoreboard used to be.
Bent nails stick out of it
like hedgehog quills.
The radio in the press box
occasionally kicks on
broadcasting nothing but static,
and the plays from days before
still power the lights.
Sandlot
Teleporting Typewriter 