The wooden stands creak.
Admire the forest of ballcaps.
Teenagers text with T-1 thumbs.
Boys toss and catch
their calves limned with elastic.
Sunset delay: the lights flare
painting the dirt Georgia red
the field green as artificial turf.
children spin like dreidls
then race drunkenly across the grass.
By the end our mouths taste of hops.
Peanut shells crunch underfoot.
Kinsella tells us stories all the way home.
Today's NaPoWriMo prompt offers four photographs to inspire poetry. One of them is of a baseball field.
I named this poem after the old wooden ballpark in Pittsfield, and many of the sensory details were drawn from memories of games there.