Son, before it’s even over,
this game of father and son,
years shrink to minutes
and one last throw
Remember me, son,
when I hurried room to room
emptying waste baskets,
slid you from infant seats
into your bed, removed
booties and stockings,
hid you with blankets
from the black ever after
After you slept I made coffee,
closed the flue, watched the sky
drop as low as the ceiling,
laid there knowing
in the distant passage of semis
I had no answers, only promises
to carry you on my back
up and down stairways,
only myths I no longer believed,
only rituals of balls
rolled like sacred boulders
in formation down fields
of diminished light
I could never find exact words
so I pitched whatever I held
underhanded and smiled, “catch,”
trying to hit your hands just right
Then you were gone in a pivot,
fielding grounders one handed,
chasing fly balls deep into centerfield
All those chores I performed
in such mechanical detail
dimmed my eyes;
whatever I had I tossed
in your direction
until my arm went sore,
had to retire
I wake now in the middle of the night
and sit alone on the stoop
listening for messages
in the grinding of the grass
So, I say to the constellations,
this is how it will be,
for me and for him.
This is how we will face
our final moments
Here, I say to the universe,
with all your fiery foul balls,
have another one. Here, then, catch