Baseball Poems 11: The Eighth Wonder, in Repose

A vast indoor field is found
in the suburbs of Houston,
once the eighth wonder of the world,
close by the rusting remains of rockets
that carried their civilization
to another planet.

When the grass died, they
painted the dirt, boundless and bare,
and developed new grass.
Better grass.
Plastic grass.

The game they played was run-starved,
their opponents wrinkled their lips.
Mike Scott's split-finger fastball
mocked them.
JR Richard's pitching
with sneers of cold command.
Batters looked upon the works of
Nolan Ryan, king of kings,
and despaired.

Legendary wars of attrition,
antique strategies resurrected
in the building of the future.

Progress now means
fresh air on demand and real grass.
Space abandoned for earth,
eighth wonder traded for a juice box.

It stands a colossal wreck
bereft of baseball,
football,
country music,
college basketball,
or rodeo.

Now obsolete as the
Lighthouse of Alexandria
and the Saturn V.