who's never cared for baseball, and never asks
about my Yankees. He doesn't want a glove,
just lets my hardball disappear into his hands
already sore from steering his truck without AC
or radio through the streets of Newark and Elizabeth.
My father, whose shirt is glued with sweat,
knows drums and crates must be loaded tonight,
but still he stands and throws to me across the hood
of his '53 Ford sagging with freight he'll have to carry
tomorrow into stores and warehouses. Tonight
I pound the Rawlings glove he bought me
and watch his face grow dim in the dark of our yard,
then the white ball from his hands into the August heat.
I'm playing catch with my father, who never liked baseball,
who nods when I ask for five minutes more.
Edwin Romond, Home Teams: Poems about Baseball (Grayson Books, 2018)
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