Sour grapes fly past the foul line
like fire in dry woods, burn
holes in the limp scorecard
pinned to his left sleeve; it’s 2-
nothing but he isn’t playing on
the team he wants and dodges
the worrying numbers.

The cats, the kids, new chair
coming next Friday, his
mother called, she’s OK, but
on her knees since sundown,
it’s the Quik-Stop for Cat
Chow, laundry soap running
low, he’s got shirts in the
cleaners, trousers at the seam –
stress, thyroid pills and Diazide
warning up the pharmacy.

It’s 3-nothing, 4-nothing, and
he wonders who cares that his
spirit is sick when the home
team flies to Spain, leaving him
to pick up the ball. Does he
think he’ll win her back, that
he can score now that she’s scored?

it won’t fly, can’t, she says,
and he barely catches her
exclamation points as the
gripes shoot across the
counter like capital homers,
and can he please stay away
on Sunday; she’s promised
the house to her brother.