Dust settles on the country road,
the second car this hour blew by and disappeared.
Pops' radio is crowing through the screen door;
I can’t tell yet if John Mellencamp’s voice
is breaking up from his smokes
or if the Panasonic’s speakers
have sung their last song.
It's dusk, and the heat is finally receding across the fields
in about 30 minutes it will be pitch black
and the crickets will amp up
about the same time the music will fade from the radio as
WCOU fades in:
Bottom of the fourth inning now, and the Reds will come up
leading by two, with Joe Morgan to lead it off
takes a ball, then fouls one away, down the first base line,
bouncing into the stands...
I grab my batting gloves and Louisville Slugger
from the garage, then step in at home plate.
In the distance the laurel oaks evaporate
the cricket’s chirps become deafening applause,
Rick Wise is out there taunting me, spitting seeds on the mound,
winding up that rocket of an arm—
Johnnie, come in for dinner!
Ma’s voice can squash any radio at full blast.
I run my finger across my throat
as if to say: tomorrow, Rick Wise,
tomorrow you’ll get yours.
This was written in collaboration with etouffee.