My Father and the Astros

In childhood's grove of faithful

trees, where Spanish moss

hangs for atmosphere,

amid the shine of owl eyes I hear

the sound of the Astros playing ball.

Radio close to my father's head

he utters curses from his bed

to the surge of the announcer's voice:

Staub striking out. He thinks losing

is what his life's about, my father,

Houston the closest New Orleans

came to having a club

after the Pelicans' fifties scrub.

Tall, lithe shortstop,

he traveled with the All-Marines

in the thirties, playing the teams

Uncle Sam got up to boost troop

morale. My father, who ran

from Oklahoma and his alcoholic old man

into an eleven-year career,

struck out the day he found

the operating table, bound

by the pain of a perforating ulcer,

doctors doubting he would live.

Another score his sons would give:

two-zip, favoring Grandfather.

Wind in the branches, the owl's

vowel staccato. It's over the plate.

I hear the crack of the ball solid

against wood, my father deep

in the team he hated to love, sleep

far off, disappointment poised

and regal. Even the stars

agree tonight with the taste in the air,

unmistakable, of imminent rain.