Fashioned of our heroes

When we awake to Ebbets field

How will we envision the faces 

Faces of the rough and rougher, dark sprinkled with unshaven visages of apparent avarice

but splendid, child-like joy

Where weekend ball played, in fields we’ve never seen

but dreamt of

rivalries rolling through the peanut vendor’s hands at Veteran’s

underneath Hudepohl signs at old Crosley

the whipping wind at Wrigley

Still standing, and gasping in the breath of antiquity

while faces bathe in translucent light, on yet another blue afternoon.

It’s where we take the time to be children,

whether we’re there or we fasten

to the radio, the way our father, grandfather, or great-grand father did.

The sound of summer on steamy evenings,

with the mosquitos, as we drift further and further 

in the mitts and mystic of our ‘beautiful game’ 

fashioned by our heroes.