I train-tracked to Seattle for an alphabet battle:
A's vs. M's.

Ten rows behind home plate,
I watched General Moyer on his hill, armed
with slow speedballs that cut
just outside the invisible box.

His men felt defeat early and weren't prepared for combat.
They lost sight of comets in the sun,
another stranger here. Warriors
with empty gloves, heavy hearts and untarnished armor.

To Moyer's relief, a new face took
his place and wielded his K's in the alphabet battle.
But we had already been overcome. Green shirts
followed the path around to its end. First three,
and then one by one: three more, and finally two more.
It was more than enough.

Sodo District emptied.
Abandoned by families with destinations of patios and barbecues
to share action of livelier battles
on little league diamonds.
Abandoned by pairs and fours in Mariner blue,
littering Occidental Avenue with
pride and spirit, bearing freshly-dealt
ATM twenties, on the quest for an amber pint.

Nobody wants to be in town on a Thursday night.
So I began walking north as the streets emptied
and crosswalk signals became optional.

Pike Street vendors stacked their woven mats,
wrapped their ceramic animals and mugs, drained
the water from tall vases of pink tulips, lavender tulips, red tulips,
all the lip shades wrapped in tissue.
All was wrapped and packed away leaving nothing
but the smell of fish.