the harsh winter air smothers canadian streets

and the sun reaching down, with its blaze,

is miles away from the lazy summer minor days

and popcorn, peanuts, and cheap american beer

not long ago, i was staring out my window

at the cbc building and the snow-covered sidewalks full of hurry

not long ago, i was walking down those streets full of parkas

and the same morning rush faces

not long ago, i was waiting for opening day, spring

soon came the sun, the pitch,

and popcorn, peanuts, and cheap american beer

and the romantic air in the empty minor league parks

the furthest thing from the fame

(and the noise of humans yelling on twitter)

canceling out all the surrounding noise

(minus me yelling at my MiLB APP) 

the bats swung, pitches hurled,

some dancing the 12-6 dance,

offspeed, some heat,

sliding away from home.

some didn’t sink,

driven over fences

into a wall of american evergreens

that cast shadows onto the field.

shadows that swallow baseballs

I spent my summer in small towns,

the road now bending me home

and back to big city streets, big city lights

back to my condo only a few blocks from the dome  

and september baseball, which is better than the smell of pumpkin spice lattes

minor days gone by in these late august nights

as the press box writes its final few headlines

about summer time baseball in small towns

and the humbling dream