Rooms circa '93

Summer evenings darken
the way time passes slower for childen
than the rest of the world.
Seconds count up
not down.

In my parent's bedroom
the Majors crackle through
AM radio, my father
lay supine on the floor.

In quiet reverie
he tosses an old hardball
toward the ceiling
catching it lightly
in heavy palms.
The scuffed hide smells of dirt
and sweaty leather.

Announcers list off stats like psalms
and the congregation crowd
murmurs and whistles
and jeers through the static.

I listen
without understanding.
I react
and mimic appropriately.
Baseball works in mysterious ways.

But of the minor disturbances
in his stoic disposition
I become hyper aware.
For in these accompanied silences
sons search for their fathers.

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