The visiting scribes pass the last of their deadlines
And put up their feet to procrastinate headlines.
The fans before us all had to wait one more day
Till they folded the paper, finally read lines.
The manager picks up his clipboard and counts down.
His options are dwindling, crossed off in lead lines.
The base coach remembers all that he used to steal;
His mind had been blank. On his face now instead: lines.
Our rookie sensation is blaming the jet lag,
Looks at the coach, silently pleas to be fed lines.
Ember Nickel knows it’s a long way to get home
Beyond this construction problem of the Red Line’s.