High-pitched radio
playing on kitchen counter,
Mom served her own team.

Peanuts, cracker jacks,
beer, and you, bleachered next to
me, the whole ball game.

Cards, signed photos stored
in the cellar, our son calls
diamonds in the rough.

To stretch, to sing the
“old ball game,” we wait to take
our grandchildren out.

The American
love story: throws, catches, strikes,
hits, walks—home runs.