“This Year’s May”
Why surprise at the white-
petaled branches nodding
me up the driveway,
scenting each breath
into the house where my son greets me
in Little League blue
and my wife waits grinning
in the open-windowed kitchen
savored with pot roast and roses?
What crust of middle age dulled me
to how good supper feels
with curtains flapping
and all of us talking
as if we just woke up from winter?
Tonight I can’t sit for TV news.
I need to be out on creaky bleachers
and cheer my boy as my wife
pours me decaf from a thermos.
This May I want nothing more
than the sun to stay longer
and light this game we love.
So let the others stare
when my wife and I hold hands
like puppy love teens,
tonight I don’t care.
I just want my jeans against hers
as we watch our precious son,
tiny in the outfield,
dash through twilight
as if no fence could stop him.
from Home Fire (Belle Meade Press, 1993)