The Other Team Is Empty Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I’ve been at it all wrong, trying to make out with you
In the middle of a baseball game your little brother is in:
That you really love,
And autumn is in the air and we have misplaced our returning
Dove;
But all the earth cracks off itself anyway, everyone is in love:
Trees are naked and the road is covered,
My uncle teaches and then you get up every morning and count
The brushes through your hair:
Cars sound outside of your open transom, flowing like rivers:
Going just the way you soon will be going, and then coming
Home again;
And I really wanted to be in something mutual, but I went about it
All wrong; and now the other team is empty
And I can never find my glove.