Poem of mine I had forgotten
At least two years ago, maybe three, I wrote a poem about some of my favorite days: waking up early on a Saturday morning at Paddy’s house, eating the enormous breakfast his mother would make, and being driven together to our baseball game. And those extra-great days when, after the game, my father or Patrick’s would drive us to an Orioles game. This must have been written around the time of my conversion to Orthodox Christianity, because there’s an idealized version of Catholicism in the poem—I’d always felt a little bad that I went through six years of Catholic school, which second to my family is the biggest definer in my life, only to switch teams in my 20′s. . . .
Good days began in friends’ kitchens
With strips of bacon wider than box-scores:
Baltimore picks up half a game
From a little drip of the fat.
Then a matinsal chorus of car doors
Trunk locks and catcher’s gear cued
By potholes. We sang hip hop
Laughing, thinking we knew better.
In the already-broiling lot, then
We torqued into spikes and we stomped
A stoic-faced walk across asphalt
Into gravel, clover, and dirt.
Good days are lovingly Catholic
Pre-Schismatic and full.
Bless them who love the beauty of Thy house
Bless them who in Mercy vs. Victory
Pray the same intercessions:
Batter, swing; look alive; look at me.
As we play the game to its end
Our fathers chase fouls or they lounge
Turning orange in the bleachers
While our mothers pass coolers of fruit.
And so that we may meditate upon Thy righteousness
Good days coast into the night:
The open-air ride up to Baltimore
The horizonal glow of the light-standards
And a promise, whispered, of chili dogs
And the most magnificent souvenirs.
