It’s funny, how baseball's always been a man’s game.
It fits so well into a woman’s schedule.
It come's in with spring.
The small radio on top of the fridge,
belts out the game all afternoon,
between ads, and static.
A pop-fly during the dishes,
a 6-4-3 double when the towels are folded.
You stop for lunch, and the crowd roars over a four-bagger, putting
in the lead.
It’s April, clothes waving on the line, as history is made, the longest opener ever.
Night games are the most exciting, at the end of some scorching summer day
and you sit,
The porch swing, powered by the gentle movement of your legs,
fighting off the day’s fatigue, as Detroit takes the Central Division.
It’s funny, this man’s game,
but it’s us who listen, and hear it.
It's rhythm, in sync with our own.
No running clock, the work is over, when it’s done.
Image Credit: Google Image