The Game is Over

THE GAME IS OVER

I visited the park not long ago
It seems so small now
A pitiable postage stamp of land Lost in the city
The trees surrounding the baseball field
 Were once so huge
Like giant sentinels overseeing the play
Of tiny creatures like insects
Barely aware of the world
Now they are just trees
Ordinary but older
The backstop is mostly rusty
Layers of silver pain have flaked off
Blown away in the winds of summer storms
I remember when it had been shiny new
The earth around its post still erupted
As though the structure was born from the field
The field is bare and dusty as it was
No amount of seeds could grow to grass here
And the aroma that comes off the field is the same
Of dust and urban grit and dashed dreams and long dead dogs
The scent of summer never changes
No kids play here now
Too much crime
Too much apathy
Too slow the game
There would be no spectators anyway
As the factory across the street was razed long ago
No workers on break smoking harmless cigarettes
And gawking at fly balls
No old hotdog vendor
Pedaling his shabby old cart
Handing out the tastiest hotdogs in the city
With gnarled hands
He, too, is long dead
The game is over
It ended years ago
Without warning or fanfare
Why do we always have to visit
To see what we have always known?