My Father Dreams of Baseball

On hot September nights, when sleep is scarce,
in place of sheep Dad counts home runs that carry
the left-field fence and fly clean out of the ball park.

Father snaps off the twi-night doubleheader.
Behind his back, the screen door loosens a hinge.
He escapes to the backyard retreat to rant at the ump.
Hopped-up in the Porsche, he’s off for an all-night binge.
By morning, Mother’s throat has a telltale lump.
He takes his losses hard, a heavy bettor.

In his dreams, white dashing figures circle the bases.
Their caps dazzle in the sun like lights on a scoreboard.
The diamond is worn a foot deep under hammering cleats.

He attends home games. Through Dad’s binoculars
the power hitters charge home plate like bulls,
and make the picador pitcher’s heart stand still.
(A curve ball is a lance that bull’s-eyes skulls.)
My father in the stands directs the kill
like a black matador in Madrid spectaculars.

Just inches inside the foul line, a figure is poised
three feet in the air, his arm outstretched for the catch.
His mouth is pinched with the pain of a near-miss.
The features are fixed with the dull metallic glow
of an ancient face, cast in bronze or brass.