A Tribute to the Major League Baseball All-Star Game
Everyone I don't know, never knew,
Hopefully never will have the disprivilege of ever knowing,
Is life-definingly, quintessentially,
In St. Louis's disgracefully retro baseball stadium, tonight,
Seeing and being seen,
Doing everything in his mundane, pedestrian, plebian capacity
To be watched, watching the antics of the "Midsummer Classic,"
While, thank whatever stars have managed to climb out
From behind St. Louis's polluted, rain-cloud-threatening cover,
I'm here, on this mid-city restaurant's patio,
Imbibing wine, savoring lettuce, tomatoes, croutons,
Allowing night's prevailing breezes to transport me,
Even as the President of the United States
Feels it's his patriotic duty to fly here, throw out the first pitch.
I must be missing something magnificent, grandiose, mystical.
It has to be in the U.S.A.'s DNA.
Whatever the case, I say grace, over this near-perfect evening,
And pray that our very own displaced Dominican, Albert Pujols,
Hits eight hundred million home runs, has two zillion RBI's,
Cleans up, with the MVP trophy,
And that I write one tiny poem dedicated to baseball's divinity.
07/14/09 - (2)
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