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SELL, SELL, SELL: A Poem For The Trade Deadline

Guns drawn at the commercial sporting goods outlet,
jersey prices geronimo,
not yet throwback, not yet radiant with irony,
and in the condo towers masking tape covers family names.
Chicago expunges rented sons to the majestic metropolis’ of ‘Merica.
Bobblehead nights are cancelled,
and modern day conquistadors
raze Wikipedia pages,
fastening bookends with lethal professionalism.
The local endorsement deal for frozen cinnamon buns
is tabled until further notice.
Men discuss trades in backyards as they swap tools with one another,
secretly hate one another,
secretly hate their yards,
secretly hate their teams’ existence as business and not religion,
as children stand on a field across town
and pick him, pick her,
and somewhere a co-worker clears his desk,
calls his spouse, gathers head into hands.
How long can one work in uncertainty?
O, great baseball promotions:
bring us Purgatory Demolition Night
where the rumors are arranged on the field like the floor’s dust,
trade machines are packed into the cloud’s crawlspaces,
and we burn and we dance and we scream
and drink beers and high fiving, always high fiving,
and hot dogs and giving foul balls to children
and play and play and play.

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