The son wanted to take his father to a ball game,
not that he loved baseball all that much,
but realized on some inarticulate level
time was running out on a better relationship
with the man he didn’t know all that well.
The son planned the day with care –
good seats, what topics to cover.
To be sure, there were some subjects to avoid,
like his father’s criticism of his choice of a career,
his father’s distance from the son’s new wife.
(Wasn’t he always kind of distant?)
But troubling questions faded in the
resplendent light of a cheering stadium.
The food was delicious; the home team even won.
The currency of the language was the game itself.
“Why didn’t they bunt then?’
“When will they bring in a new pitcher?”
The son was surprised how much baseball his father knew.
On the trip home he thought it a good day,
but realized with a start, he and his father
were no closer now, but then again,
They weren’t further apart either.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME