Broadcast of the Game

THREE thousand miles, on the other side of the continent,
and this the hour noon: noon, and a bland sun,
the quiet impersonal sunlight on hibiscus and poinciana leaves,
and the abstract voice out of the amplifier announcing,
“Well, the sun is setting pretty rapidly now . . ὕ
and the anonymous roar of the crowd cheering,
cheering, already in their evening, at a far place;
the faces, voices never to be gathered again, at a game you’ll never see,
and you remembering now, remotely, play by play,
crisp leaves in a coppery sunset, stale taste of rye
and the chilly damp smell of frost moving over the bleachers,
remembering now while the radio voice shouts, “Twenty yards! . . .
thirty yards! . . .” and the cheering ascends to frenzied crescendo,
and there is the swift figure running, running into the red sunset,
running into the bloody evening light, and the cries wild,
alto and shrill, mounting in thunderous blare of band:
but the players, the crowd in their evening already death hours ago;
and you here in your quiet noon remembering,
but the shadow moving westward . . . .