For Billy Beane, on the Eve of Game Four

Billy.
Someone photoshopped that helmet in
someone scribbled your name
someone who once liked your good face
now gags
when they see it.

That’s how it goes.
How did it go last night?

I thought to myself, of my last poem
to you,
that there could have been more magic
that I could have insisted
more: my A’s hat was magically
given to me by a man named Billy
on the street with a wink
and a ruddy cheek
and glasses
and a still okay head
of hair — but I didn’t —
I am so unaware of the process of poems
of magic, of bees, leaves.

Thought to myself that this time, I’ve gotta
do the magic right, so here:

Tonight, there’ll be an elfin sprite
(the same Joe West has seen)
trying to steal the Tigers’ tails
whipping them all around.
He’ll be wearing my hat, the sprite,
which he stole from me
on the same street that you gave it,

Billy.
But I did not chase him, Billy,
I let him walk away. If the A’s win
tonight, he can keep it; if they lose
he can keep it, too.