Last night we watched baseball,
a drink in our hands,
our mouths tired now,
from all the talking,
our minds tired now,
our souls, quiet, for now.
The grass on television looks ultra green
and the white of the uniforms
snap like clean laundry.
This is spring coming,
I tell myself, watching the fan on the floor whirl.
The window is open,
and the faint trace of smoke
and the slow steps of the old man
making his way up the street,
tell me again, this is spring.
There is a homerun and we cheer.
We talk about going to see some games this summer,
about maybe my old father and my old mother coming too.
We talk about Coney Island,
and you squeeze my hand as if to say,
yes we have survived this long winter.
Yes it is spring.
And I watch you watch the game
and think about how it is almost your birthday
and I’m so glad we had this year together.
One more year together.
And I turn back to the game and watch the pitcher
hurl the perfect final pitch
and paint the black like Picasso.
13 hours ago