Tonight, Fenway Park is cold, quiet, empty,
Inhabited by pigeons, grass, and wind.
The fans have turned to important tasks,
Raising children,
Removing tumors,
Teaching mathematics,
While forgetting the children's names,
Hesitating over how to reach the tumor,
Stumbling through the equations,
Tossed from reality by a spasm of thought,
They could've won it,
They had em,
Mistrustful, dismayed, embittered
By the wild pitch,
The medley of catastrophe,
The awful, throbbing repetition of
They could've won it,
They blew it.