Taking Infield

The sound of rain on a metal roof
like childhood in a good dream
where he still—  with chocolate and coffee—
the splatters of rain—  I imagine you alive,
emerging from your house

as we wait for the bus to take us to school—
your red hair—   It’s raining harder now
a distant flash and then a grumbling
from the old gods—  We once kneeled
to them, sang to them, burned offerings—

The last time I saw you, I was playing baseball,
he says.  If you saw me, you hid it well—
sitting in the back seat of a car parked on the road
beside the park.  We are taking infield—
A child wakes in an adjoining room. Whimpers—

then faint voices behind a door—  You were ten,
and Jack who taught us more than allowed
was already packing to move, as would we in a week—
to Oklahoma.  You emerge from your house
in January—  the mountains in the distance.


from Dust