though we have been
consistently oh-for-my-lifetime,
i patiently wait
to hear the good news of
a hoisted white flag, proudly waving
over Addison and Clark.
every March i pray for relief
as i root-root-root for the Cubbies
(how long, O Lord, to sing this song),
but forever we remain in this parched and
weary land, each disappointing season buried
with its brothers in Zeke's dry-bone valley.
today we lost another one to the Astros.
(how the haughty do gloat over our desolation,
oh Lord, and you do not avenge us.)
every april i forsake the frugality of hope
that the older and wiser and wearier heads afford.
for i remember the days of Ryno and Andre, the pure hitters.
i recount to each generation the stories of Banks and Santo.
and had i children and children's children, i would
rest them upon my knee and teach them to mourn
the foul ball, the close call, the five-outs-to-go bobble
by he-who-will-not-be-named.
every may i mourn with those who mourn,
the hurlers whose arms fail them.
(we have delivered mark and kerry over to
the Enemy in the hope that their souls may
be spared.)
every june i venture to hope
this year will be different than before,
before every august teaches me differently.
it's been three septembers since i had a reason
to cheer, save for the ruin of others.
(we are laid waste, we are desolate, we are
forsaken in this cold and windy land. our enemies
laugh at the errors and swinging strikeouts and
blown saves that beset us. deliver us.)
we lost to the Astros with the winning run at the plate.
there is no joy in Wrigleyville.
the children weep, the men grit their teeth and
squint their eyes against the harsh winds off the lake.
thousands wonder why they even bother watching
such a travesty.
what time is tomorrow's start again?
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