Rebuilding Years

                                                                                                The M’s have given up
                                                       the ghost of                   baseball
                                                               present.                  They are
                                                             shooting	                 for three seasons

                                                           from now	                 (an arrow, 
                                                        it turns out,
                                                                     does	                 not
                                                                         go	                 where it is

                                                               pointed	                 (most
                                                                    days,	                 now that we’ve settled,
                                                          I pull your	                 legs over mine on the 
                                                                                                 couch, kitchen

                                                                   clock	                 sprung 
                                                             forward,		         kids turned
                                                                                                 down
                                                                      past	                 the heat

                                                    differential)).	                 Oh,
                                                                   to see	                 the ’01 M’s 
                                                                                                 play
                                                                   again,

                                               roof rolled back,
                                                 mirror neurons	                 backpedaling,
                                         (our daughter grabs	                 balloon strings from
 
                                                                   happy	                 board-book dinosaurs 
                                                                                                 (Where did the balloons go? 
                                                                                                 our girl asks.
                                                                                                 She doesn’t understand

                                  those rainbow puddles
                                                            of rubber	                  had dreams once, too))
                                                                                                  Ichiro plants 
                                                                                                  and fires

                                                                                                  down the line,
                                                                                                  one-hopper back home
                                                      to the ghost
                            of our last great catcher—	                  placing the

                                                                                                  tag and sending us 
                                                                                                  into extra innings 
                                                                                                  we don’t
                                                                    want	                  but might need.

                                                               We stay 
                                     through the credits—
                                             that’s our thing—
                                                                   credit

                                                         the middle	                  relievers,
                                                            wordless,	                  know the score, 
                                                                      stay,	                  together,
                                                               anyway.

Read more from Issue 20.1.