Along the bridged bay,

In a stadium past its prime,

As a departing team closes its play.

A field of oak and grime,

Bears witness to its final sport

Before its swan song,

Along the cliffs of its seaside fort.

Where history is measured so very long,

A pitcher climbs the clay mound,

And plays a game,

Atop the undemonstrative ground.

On a Wednesday night, he will pen his name,

In a stadium that has seen it all on the field;

It watches with storied reflection,

As the pitcher locks the coliseum’s door, his fate sealed,

After capturing baseball’s perfection.  

Photo by Mark Duffel on Unsplash