Wrigley Field-7/19/20 (A Poem)

Slick pick-up, Javy!
Nice smash, Timmy!

An aura of eeriness pervades this hallowed baseball ground as the game is played.
I wonder what Gabby or Ernie would say if they were still around?

Missing are the beckoning calls of the beer vendors and the wafting aroma of hot dogs,
absent are the special cheers and jeers that only exit the mouths of baseball’s true believers.

The thud of the ball landing securely in the mitt is louder than usual,
the batter and catcher can even hear the umpire’s broom as it whisks the plate.

Empty boxes. Empty grandstands. Empty bleachers.

Wrigley Field has never seen the likes of this before.

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