for Jake     
                 
Three guys, not in T- but undershirts,
pretending they’re batter, catcher, and ump.
My father’s the one in the catcher’s crouch.
No gloves, no pads, the bat—is that
a piece of pipe? There is, however, a ball

in his hands; he holds it just below
his eyes, as if—he taught in games
of catch—he’d looked it into his hands.
Whoever snapped it was standing
a few feet in front of the plate,

or would have been if there was a plate,
but this is the -teens in Ohio
and there is no home plate, just that half
a house to the left and a vine along
a fence. We’ve had it up for years

(beside the one of you
in another batter’s box) until today
I took it down—I’m not sure why—
and brought it here—I do know why—
to the condensery of years.

When you were two, I cringed
to no one in a journal, Forgive me,
someone, for being a dad—no one,
but it was a prayer, the gist: I’m in
way over my head, can only inflict

on a kid—a son—the error of my ways.
The error of one’s ways: that fat
Platonic ball. What else can a man
toss to a son? Look it, I said, in games
of catch, all the way into your glove.