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.)
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