Sunday afternoon, the White Sox are playing.
We sit at home, too lazy (or poor) to be at the ballpark
but rapt before the TV,
inside on a glorious sunny day,
buoyed by the hope that accompanies Spring.
Flowers and leafing trees, a warming breeze,
and a new season
with new young players
who haven’t yet disappointed.
They may yet,
but White Sox fans are accustomed to disappointment,
and the future is not today.
Today it’s still next year on Chicago’s South Side.