For you, Dad, I turn on the ballgame.

It doesn’t matter which game, exactly,
does it?

So familiar, the way you spent the long hours
of your freedom, soaking up the drama, huge
warrior men in combat, lifting themselves
out of the mud;
                                  rooting as if it all mattered,
as if this were the real work of men,
as if we were going to live forever and
this was the best we could do, watch.

At the end, after the field goal from the 37

in the final seconds, I can’t raise
my hollow male body from the chair.