Baseball – the language between fathers and sons,
familiar terms of runs and relief pitchers
and second-guessing the manager’s decision.
“Did you see the game last night?” I email,
code for how come you don’t call me often enough.
“You think the team will be better than .500?” –
subterfuge for why don’t you tell me
what’s really on your (home) plate these days?
I know you’re swinging for the financial fences these days,
and the economy is as shaky as the old ball park,
but I am stranded far away from the action on your field.
So let me into the game once in a while.
Toss a conversational ball up to me in the stands.
Explain to me your preparation for facing the competition
while we sit with our hot dogs and beer.
I am not ready to call it a game yet,
and drift back to the cornfields of dotage.
I am standing at the plate now, awaiting your pitch
to re-establish after a long (rain) delay
the fastball connections between fathers and sons.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME