Betzi Richardson

Double Play

for my father

 

Summer. I used to sit and keep my Dad

company. I read while he watched TV.

Baseball grew on me. Male bodies beautifully

muscled, but not too much; the steroid scandal had

blown over. I came to love the secret codes,

the touches, taps, studied glances – the flexes

and swings of the home run hitters, those apex

predators contrasting with the leaping, mountain goat

outfielders, flinging their bodies through air.

 

Meanwhile, my Dad lingered. How many more

at bats will he have? Who or what’s keeping score?

Top of the ninth. I steal a glance at him warily.
Dozing. His white hair softly breaks in a wave

over his forehead. In sleep his face has gone opaque.

Betzi Richardson is a visual artist and poet, living in LA. She taught at Santa Monica College and has a Masters in English. Her poems have been published in her chapbook, This Desert Inclination, and in journals: Antioch Review, Slant, Artlife, Pinyon, Upstairs at Duroc, Transformation, Nantahala Review, and others.