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Stealing Home
Sprawled across the living room floor,
Dad listens to the voice of Herb Score
announcing the next Indian at bat.
Humidity hangs in the house,
like a thick carpet on a sagging clothesline.
Only the rose-colored lamp illuminates
Dad’s face in an otherwise dark room.
“It’s too hot for lights,” he whispers to me.
Kneeling down, I join Dad on the floor
hoping to catch a breeze from the window
above his head. Turning slowly,
he acknowledges me with a tired smile.
Side by side, we lay quietly,
lulled by the monotony of the play by play.
In our silence I want to tell him
about the baseball cards I stole today.
About the same time Tony Horton
steals home, I almost do.
Marianne Woeste: After retiring from her teaching career in 2009, Marianne began focusing more time on the craft of writing, which had only been a pastime during her working years. Since 2009 she has taken several writing classes, participated in writing workshops, joined a writers’ group, and has begun reading more poetry journals and websites.
Email: Marianne Woeste
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