Billy Collins at a Ballpark
The poet wore a red scarf
standing on the roof
of the 3rd base dugout
facing the waiting crowd
seated in the Field Boxes,
his live image projected
on the scoreboard screen
behind him, October sunlight
narrowing its angle toward
winter by the moment. Everywhere
one looked, baseball surrounded
this remarkable man, his
poems welcoming us in,
only to take turns and twists,
endings unexpected, each poem,
that bright fall morning, delivered
like Sandy Koufax throwing
arching masterful curveballs
on fastball counts, except
when one was expected, as
Hammons Field, its foul lines
stretching out forever beyond
the outfield fence,
across the curve of the earth,
encompassed eventually
everything, even itself.