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.