The Fathers of Summer

The quiet rain dispelled any thoughts of a rain out. It was Fenway, it was Father's Day, And within the sacred realm of wooden bats, Unswung and dumbly waiting, There is the halcyon hope of impact This on our first day of summer Like the first day with our father When he slapped us on our day-old baby chests To keep us alive, keep the beeps beeping, Forcing life's tiny engine to re-fire, Making love's literal labor rumble back into place Like the slamming of the hood of the car or The smacking of the hanging breaking ball or The blowing up of balloons, in school, for winter's child Who needs to see the swelling of life into vivid colors So that he'll be tempted to speak through the tumors And show me how even more not-so-small, slow miracles take form, Like the oldest man on the team, On the mound, leading the league in wins, Like my father putting a lunch together, A salad, asparagus, and sausage in three Giant containers I could never fit in my work bag So in a flash he grabs this nifty-sized paper bag out of nowhere, (the nowhere where the cabinet and the refrigerator is), That dark and unspeakable vertical slit Where all things crawl to be forgotten Except by my dad who hears nothing and attends to everything Scrambling even now to get a lunch together for his 29-year-old son who slogs eye-blinkingly around the kitchen As morning-dumb as the day of his arrival With the first pitch, the first slap, the first symbol of love. Father's guide us through the passing fog Like a lighthouse with a hearing problem, on wheels, Barreling into the future, keeping the ball moving, Keeping the world working. The father is our Sun, Summer's Eternal Boy, Guiding truth (or his version of it) where it need go: Another Red Sox win, Another sandwich made, Another reason to smoke a cigar. Happy Father's Day, Dad. As long as you promise to keep swinging I'll promise to speak up. (And answer my phone.)