Baseball is a cosmic game of Chutes and Ladders.

Year after year I find myself

at the bottom of the slide,
my legs splayed, my stomach churned,
sitting in a heap, wondering,
if in my lifetime, I’ll ever climb to the top.
Once, twenty-seven years ago,
my Mets defeated the Red Sox Nation,
but since then it’s been a Biblical drought,

a Dust Bowl of dried up dreams
with the realization there is

nothing growing down on the farm.

I can only watch the current crop,
and writhe in exquisite agony

with my only stalk of hope -

believing next year will bear better fruit.

Rooting for a losing team actually fortifies me,

in that I am not quite alone in living

the descending arc of my life.