The spring we didn’t make love,
I started following baseball—
radio on the kitchen table,
me in that old night dress,
the ball dropping into a glove,
always two down, bottom
of the ninth, a small glass
of something, smoke through
the screen while the people
who slept in my house slept
in my house. Tinker to Evers
to Chance. To Chance from Tinker
and Evers. If ever there were
a chance for us. If ever
to tinker. If chance. Dust rising
from a just tapped plate.
If I couldn’t have you,
I’d take the Cubs.
The losses and the wins.
The wins and the losses.
