Brooklyn August
by Stephen King
(for jim bishop)

In Ebbets Field the crabgrass grows
(where Alston managed) row on row
as the day's axle turns into twilight I still see
them, with the green smell of just-mown infield
grass heavy in the darkening end of the day:
picked out by the right-field floods, just turned on
and already assaulted by battalions of circling
moths and bugs on the night shift; below, old men
and offduty taxi drivers are drinking big cups of
Schlitz in the $0.75 seats, this Flatbush as real as
velvet Harlem streets where jive packs the jukes
in the June of '56.

In Ebbets Field the infield's slow
and seats are empty, row on row
Hodges is hulked over first, glove stretched to
touch the throw from Robinson at third, the
batters' boxes float in the ghost-glow of this sky-
filled Friday evening (Musial homered early,
Flatbush is down by 2). Newcombe trudged to an
early shower through a shower of popcorn and
newspaper headlines. Carl Erskine is in now and
chucking hard but
Johnny Podres and Clem Labine are heating
in case he blows up late;
he can, you know, they all can

In Ebbets Field they come and go
and play their innings, blow by blow
time's called in the dimness of the 5th
someone chucked a beer at Sandy Amoros in right
he spears the empty cup without a word
and hands it to a groundkeeper chewing Mail Pouch
while the faceless fans cry down juicy Brooklyn vowels,
a plague on both their houses.
Pee Wee Reese leans on his knees west of second
Campanella gives the sign
with my eyes closed I see it all
smell steamed franks and 8 pm dirt
can see those heavenly shades of evening
they swim with angels above the stadium dish
as Erskine winds and wheels and throws low-inside: