That pennant

That pennant snaps and dances

as the breeze picks up from left,

as the jaunty organ echoes

from the angles of the outfield

washing- burbly as root beer-

across the milling zealots…

I screw feet down in the dust

of a faded-chalk batters box

and wind that spring in my hips.

A jangle at the backstop

tells me you are past my shoulder,

late for second-shift start so

you can scope my last plate turn…

Jim Rice, elbows brisk, rounds the

bags and your hard-bitten clan of

union brothers scream popcorn flecks

at the chlorotic wide-screen.

Rice motors home from third, you slap

my back, and give a big wring

to the steward’s nicotine hand…

You yell sharp on the phone as

an Ortiz parabola hangs

like a bright cat-bird visible

from Punta Gorda and Boston,

both - the crowd roaring like flame

oxidized through shared cable...

In those jaundiced hours before

your failed resuscitation -

I beg you for the big rally.

Mid-September, for Christ’s sake

and the Old Towne Team has a chance.

How can you exit the gate now..?

I stand ready in our back yard -

that long narrow neck of green

that you mow short beside the pool -

and hurl an off-line throw past your mitt.

You laugh and tip-toe around the

soft fruit beneath the crab-apple tree

and wipe the dirty ball clean

on your work pants.

And you smile,

and you tell me to try again…

That pennant snaps and dances.

The Red Sox storm the sunlit field.

My son asks why I cry.

And, I tell him.