the baseball game
for zachariahin my eyes, this is minor–
no, not even minor:
five dollars for a spot
on tinny metal bleachers
behind home plate,
only a chain-link fence
between the game and me.
we are so close that I can hear
the crunch of gravel under cleats
and see the tiny puff of dust
that rises with each thud
of leather ball with leather glove.
it feels like myth, like childhood
in small towns surrounded by
interstates and corn.
it feels like an America
I dreamed of once, an illusion
faded now and cracking
in the light of middle age.
except that I can see
in his eyes, this is major league:
the metal-halide stadium lights
a revelation;
the scrape of a runner sliding home,
the singing zing of foul balls
against the fence before us.
it feels like myth, the forging
of his childhood in breathless wonder.
watch my wide-eyed, green-eyed son.
watch him dream
a new world into being.
poem and photo (c) 2016 D. Ohlandt
please only reprint in entirety and with credit given
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