“Epic” by Mike Gavin

 

Like granite waiting to be chiseled, she sits:
Uncertain, sad, waiting for the pale moon
to overtake her, then the warm day.

She spreads out wide, and takes in all
who will come, offering herself
for the seasonal passion and the men

who take advantage.  The time will come
to offer up the sacrifice, and the men
will hold their sticks at the right angle

and lay their balls upon her, and there
will be the climax, the man coming home.
The crowd will cheer, as the Greeks did

at Iphiginia’s death, and the fight will
have just begun.  In the days that follow,
there will be more sorrow: limp bats, fumbled balls.

For this is Chicago.

If gods played the game, this would
be purgatory.  And if happiness
were obtainable, this would be the residence

of envy.  Songs sung, bats swung, games
won, but not by Cubs.  Afternoons spent
here escape memory.  

Just beyond the bleachers, El trains rage
upon their tracks,  all trains stop here,
taking whoever will go there, home.

Sick muse, come unto me.
Love, do the same.