A Baseball Poem

I will never write a perfect
poem about baseball. It just
won’t happen. So why try?

I’ll tell you exactly why to try:
Baseball is perfection. It is the game
of kings, the play of paupers.

The grass diamond is more an emerald
than anything else. A jewel cut
so precisely and pristinely it glows.

Even the ball itself has a certain texture
which cannot be replicated. Trust me,
I’ve tried.

The smell of that fresh dirt, watered down
every so often, the cleanest smell
in the world; that doesn’t fade come winter.

Who knows, maybe every poem concerning
the bases, and the bats, and the balls,
are perfect.

Why? Because it’s baseball.