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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