Poem for Sunday

The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field
By Richard Hugo

The dim boy claps because the others clap.
The polite word, handicapped, is muttered in the stands.
Isn't it wrong, the way the mind moves back.

One whole day I sit, contrite, dirt, L.A.
Union Station, '46, sweating through last night.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.

Score, 5 to 3. Pitcher fading badly in the heat.
Isn't it wrong to be or not be spastic?
Isn't it wrong, the way the mind moves back.

I'm laughing at a neighbor girl beaten to scream
by a savage father and I'm ashamed to look.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.

The score is always close, the rally always short.
I've left more wreckage than a quake.
Isn't it wrong, the way the mind moves back.

The afflicted never cheer in unison.
Isn't it wrong, the way the mind moves back
to stammering pastures where the picnic should have worked.
The dim boy claps because the others clap.

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From Poet's Choice in The Washington Post today, on baseball poems.

Late yesterday: dragged the kids out shopping for necessities, folded laundry, gorged myself on Remus/Sirius fic (go read 's When It Alteration Finds: Four Things That Never Happened to Remus Lupin), chatted with , asked other people's icons questions. Another wild Saturday night.

And hurrah! No cheating or anything! I'm a cross-dresser and Martin Landau loves me!

You Are Ed Wood From "Ed Wood."SIZE="-2" FACE="Verdana"> You definitely have your name in history, although probably not for the reason you believe. Yet you are very accepting, non-judgemental, and optimistic almost to a fault. You also have a thing for angora sweaters. How could anyone not like you?

Take The Johnny Depp Quiz!