I am talking baseball with my dad
Home runs and earned run averages
He is as surprised as I
To hear that I understand the lingo
Of his pastime. My childhood tuned
To his great loves. Swings and misses,
A glove on my left hand
Every spring. My self-conscious stance
In the batter’s box while he called
Instructions I could not hear or connect
Between bat and ball. All those school patrol
Outings down 95 while we waited
For baseball to return to Washington.
What I wanted was a conversation
With my father. Where I found it
Was a phenom on home plate
A swing and a shuffle and a ball beyond
The moon on an October night.
Interpret as you will.
I was counting myself safe.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME