summer's over and that means no more baseball until, at the earliest, february. this is a "HELP! i have writers' block!" poem.

'cause people ain't seen a brown skin man since their grandparents bought one.

sorry, i'm listening to rage.

winter gnaws at my bones
and i am out of seasons, out of sorts.
ill-suited for winters,
ill-suited for seasons without
the smell of burning wood,
big blue sky promising nothing
but summer days, thick green grass,
cork and cowhide,
ill-suited for seasons without the
promise of extra innings.