Saul Bennett
23
In treasured mauve August, when reddest plums overflow
country stand bins, and in the city painted pine summer slats
front apartment doors, when rain no longer quibbles but
accommodates dusk, and the steady melody from overhead
fans entrances sparrows to sleep on a slender boardwalk
of fire escape, a corresponding sound revives, from within
a walnut cathedral-arch radio on legs-the jat-jat-jat-ing
of ticker tape relaying a picture, ball-by-ball, of road games
in the War, when home games only were captured alive.
Precious August! August everywhere! August forever.