Ivy Season

Craving:
The salty sizzle of a stadium hot dog,
pitched down the aisle from the sea of vendors;
peanuts and shells, beer and ice cream, popcorn and its caramel cousin.

Staring into the sun at green and sand, pinstripe and knee-highs;
this sun (different here than anywhere else:
warmer and clearer and more familiar)
warming both my shoulders and my diet soda
as I listen to the jovial wisecracks from the old-timey organ,
the bark of calls at the plate, the crick and crack of a bat
after a particularly emphatic throw to the center of the strike zone,
and the cheers, oohs, ahhs, and roaring chatter of some thousands of people,
who are wearing blue and red, just like me.

Time stalled during spring's first shaky steps,
the slow motion of nine symmetrical innings
(patterns are soothing to people like me),
and the suspended breath of an upper-deck afternoon,
lazy with breezes and foul balls
and the feel of familiarity, and loving this
sweet home Chicago,
and the view of the north-side ivy
in the blue sky of this first day that really feels like spring.