The Circle Review
Major League
Conrad Geller
Looking up, the fielder can not find
what ball there might have been, against the sun,
a bad end to a disappointing season,
with gnats, rainouts, scuffles in the clubhouse,
all toward the looming end of his career.
The few disgruntled fans chose not to boo,
since it didn't matter, just scribbled in their scorecards
the facts, without remark, as they occurred.
Meanwhile, the player's wife, who hates baseball,
does her nails, gazes out her window
at the selfsame sun, which glows a lovely crimson
as it sets behind the New Jerusalem Mart.
Tomorrow, she thinks, will be a perfect time
to call her mother with exciting news.
Did I Love You Then?
Conrad Geller
Did I love you then? You and I both know
how clear the sky that short December day,
how slim the nascent moon, how pale the dawn,
how cold the morning when you went away.

And now that there is nothing more to say,
how strange the silence when we chance to meet,
your presence no less lovely but more grave,
I hear the whispered ancient lies repeat,

see that old slut December in the street,
ragged and cheerful, smiling, beckoning me
to join once more her deadly masquerade.
But then I read your face. It cannot be.
​
The saddest part of love is memory,
regret in love the worst of human woe.
These are my tokens and my monument.
So, did I love you? You and I both know.