Night
Game, 1964
The murk in the lot west of Trumbull
smears Tiger Stadium to a smudge on the page
buckled newsprint damp to the touch.
Gauzy chrome in drunken coils
snakes around the swarming cars
molting engine blocks
tick to crescendo in metallic meadows
that collar the castle
a sweating layer cake
oozing a scrim of grimy icing
inhaling a parade of ants through open pores.
There’s green
then there’s the green
framed in the gaping mouth of the tunnel
where we emerge bathed in light
a cottony chemical glow
tainting horizons way out Michigan Avenue
backlighting the skyline
from the steps of Scott Fountain.
A coal black usher
in a red striped shirt
flips our green seats down
four gunshot cracks wiped clean
with a snow white rag.
Raptured pills of high pop flies
leave me behind with the unsaved multitudes
our faces beaming heavenward
while Pharisees proclaim
the holy host in paper cups
up and down the sweat slick steps
of the temple.
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