Learning the “Green Light” from My Son, by Robert Fillman

Listen here:

Up by seven runs, 3-0 count,
and Fernando Tatis Jr.
pretends he doesn’t see the sign
to take, decides to swing away,
loops one to the opposite field
that just clears the fence, a grand slam.

But he’s met with jeers from teammates,
public scolding from his skipper,
opposing manager crying
foul as he carps to reporters
about how “we’re raised in this game.”

So Bebo puts his tail between
his legs and apologizes
to the world for doing the thing
he does best: rake.

                       Just yesterday
I watched from the window, my son
dancing in our front yard, his hands
high above his head as he twirls
in a homemade Elsa costume,
his long muscular limbs leaping
from spot to spot under blue skies,
in view of the whole neighborhood. 

He spins like a curveball, body
now cork-rubber hugged tight with yarn
and horsehide, eyes closed as he twists,
as though every pirouette were
a signal missed, as if each lunge
were some unwritten rule he has
waved off as he swings for the fence.

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