that October, i took the express route to the back porch
where shadows long as baptist sermons
shrouded the aging black and white,
(with rusting rabbit ears)
and the unheated room.
my then-beloved yankees
were dying like the remaining vestiges of summer;
humbled by the arm of koufax;
swinging without success
like apprentice jazzmen.
how could a wistful schoolboy
see what even roger maris missed
from the cheap seats,
on a set with failing sight,
3000 miles away?