I spent a couple months out East.
They were quite strange, to say the least.
On Sunday, I’d go off to church
But would not be left in the lurch,
For tennis-watching. I returned
And got my lunch, and quickly learned
That I could watch an endless set
At times that hadn’t happened yet
Within my normal, Central, zone.
I’m here again now, and bemoan
The constant, unsuccessful action
Of overzealous time subtraction.
The ballgame there on mlb
Dot com starts at four-thirty, see.
So I say “cool, three-thirty, then,”
And go on with my day. But when
Morning turns into afternoon
I try to watch the game too soon.
“Three-thirty? That’s two-thirty here…”
The problem quickly becomes clear.
Tonight I got a new surprise.
I wanted to blog, thought it wise
To check both the final scores, first.
And, obviously, I was cursed
To navigate to the website.
Up to that moment, things went right
But before me, quick as a flash
I saw the TBS ad splash:
“Five-thirty pm: today’s game!”
Today’s? How is it not the same…
Oh. It’s past eleven o’clock
Here. Time waits for no fan, nor jock.