By Karen Zaborowski Duffy
Even God, I think, is here,
so high up in the stands
with my ten-year old daughter and me
we can almost touch the X
from Schmidty's old home run,
probably the two worst seats at the Vet
but right where the whole world
wants to be.
I let her drink real Coke,
eat Milky Ways and dance with strangers
at 11:30 on a school night and still
ninety minutes from home.
I took her sticky hand.
The Phillies and we are in control.
For now, the world has stopped worrying
about players who might be traded,
moods that might swing and miss.
There are no thoughts about new uniforms
and the boys who will wear them.
Tonight she is here and finds it easy
to love me for this end-of-season
home game.
We are those jumping red dots
in the center of the universe, my daughter
and me and a baseball game
that is perfect and no more meaningless
than anything else.
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Tuesday was cool and quiet around here, a lovely day to walk and sweep leaves off the deck, lots of squirrels and chipmunks around plus one bunny hiding under a bush. I didn't get a lot done besides laundry and a Halloween fest contribution due two days ago.
I watched Voyager's "The Cloud" with my JetC friends, which is still a thing of beauty and a joy no Trek stupidity can stop. Then we watched what turned out to be the last game of the World Series, meh. From Homestead Farm, the goats, pigs, and alpacas of the season:
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