Snow Cone Green

Snow Cone Green-Benjamin Moore-2026-30

Patrick McCabe

The dull clang of a steel bat

Shatters the placid silence

Of a magnificent summer morning,

A leather ball soars through the sweltering Virginian air,

The majestic orb seems to sail endlessly

Floating towards the divine horizon,

But some invisible force swiftly plucks the ball out of the sky,

It leisurely rolls until it comes to a tranquil standstill

In the beautifully cured Bermuda grass,

I observe the game from an old wooden bench

On a grassy hill beyond the serene outfield,

Separated by a Green Giant,

Four feet short,

I can just barely make out the words “Take me out to the crowd”

Emanating from the sound system below,

On the other side stand

Nine boys,

All with dreams of the Big Leagues

All with Dreams of Big Flies,

And all with dreams of making it Big,

Dreams of cloudless mornings in the cages,

And moonless nights at the bullpen,

Of the age old dirt of Fenway

And the checkered grass of Yankee Stadium,

Longing to stand on the very same home plate

Where Babe Ruth, and Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig, and Yogi Berra, David Ortiz

And all the other boys of summer once stood,

A pair shiny quarters jingle in my pocket

As I approach the enticing Snack Shack,

My mouth waters with the thoughts of

Chilidogs and cotton candy, Dippin’ dots and Cracker Jacks,

I visualize the snow cone,

A mound of frozen grated ice,

The green apple syrup slowly drips down

Through the crevices,

Producing a pool of sweet, luscious syrup

That I slurp and guzzle down,

Filling my body with a pleasurable sensation,

But soon these days will fade away,

Leaving me with nothing but delightful memories,

Gone will be the days of baseball at the crack of dawn

And mouth-watering snow cones,

Gone will be the precious blossoms

And the aroma of freshly cut grass,

Soon the leaves will lose their color,

And the earth will ice over with the first frost,

Followed by flurries and snow storms,

Now baseball is but a dream,

A longing for a day at the park over takes me,

I yearn for the soft cotton of my Cubs jersey

And the curved brim of my cap,

For the smooth grip of my Di Marini

And the gentle depressions in my Vendetta,

From where scores of fastballs, curve balls, and sinkers

Were transfigured into line drives, base hits, and sacrifice bunts,

I slip the Vinci leather mitt onto my miniscule hands,

As I toss a ball into the pocket

Worn smooth by hundreds of catches,

All the memories come rushing back


For more poems return to Middlemindz