Like Yesterdays In Games Of Baseball Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Manner less bandits japing at my tents,
Paging through their thesauruses—
While I am left mumbling, numberless fingers
In my mouth wanting to ride the
Merry-go-Round of Pegasus's—
Like Phoebe in a weeping dream—ready to
Become that thing that can no longer be reclaimed:
Ready to become another adult playing
The adult game—
And there to be lost—gifts of the magi given to the
Coffins, like beautiful girls wandering off
Into another well-lit church—
Like ghostly cousins whispering as if of the echoes
Of holidays amidst the bowers of predestined
Christmas trees—
Partaking in silent parks—scarred of cheek and soul—
The rainstorms come and freckle the swings—
Like yesterdays in games of baseball where the emptied
Batters swing.