I am awash in statistics.
I am bleary-eyed from Beckett's.
I hear the shrieks of deals gone sour.

I am drowning in baseball cards,
       more numberless than the
  leaves tumbling from my
            giant oak, or the blizzard
of confetti that welcomed
    Lindbergh home.

They are everywhere.
I slog through.

Cecil Fielder dogs my footsteps,
  George Brett stares at me from behind
       hard plastic, while the likes
             of Jack Clark and Rock Raines
lie discarded in dusty
        corners, face down
and forgotten.

I stare at the winners and losers.
I see the market working itself out.

Gold Cards, Stadium Cards,
Fleer and Upper Deck.
I am knee deep.
The tide is rising.

September 1991

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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