Sprawled across the living room rug,
Dad listens to the voice of Herb Score
announcing the next Indian at bat.
Humidity hangs in the house
like a thick carpet on a sagging clothesline.
Only the rose-colored lamp illuminates
Dad’s face in an otherwise dark room.
“It’s too hot for lights,” he whispers to me.
Kneeling down, I join Dad on the floor
hoping to catch a breeze from the window
above his head.  Turning slowly,
he acknowledges me with a tired smile.
Side by side, we lie quietly,
lulled by the monotony of the play by play.
In our silence I want to tell him
about the baseball cards I stole this afternoon.
About the same time Tony Horton
steals home, I nearly do.

the sky
is black enough
to camouflage
ravens and crisp
enough to
frost the trees
in the yard
yet there
is not room
enough in its
cool indigo
to hide this
crucified soul
the truth is:
every night
is cold and dark
when you are married
to the void