Watching in agony and then cathartic relief as the Twins eked out a 12-inning win in Cleveland, while teen-aged pitter-patter drifted in from the next room, brought to mind W.H. Auden:
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along . . . .
Or while titters about someone's Insta post mix with a dejected sounding Cory Probus as yet again we make the first out of an extra inning without advancing the ghost runner to third.
Just want to point out that the sense of that fourth line is reinforced by the long march of simple words. Really a great poem. The whole thing is here. The painting Auden interprets, "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," is above. The line in which a horse scratches its ass on a tree on Good Friday must be one of the high points of the last century's poetry in English; also, entirely consistent with the art of Pieter Bruegel the Elder, who has a painting of what the world will look like to me if the Twins can't win most of their next six games, against the A's and Royals, American League weaklings:
Eric the Blue 
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