the Yankees are playing at the Field of Dreams.
Dan and I have a plan to FaceTime
and watch together, while talking shit
about love and poetry.
He saw someone kill themselves
last week, and he is still shaken up,
and I am still shaken up by last year,
so baseball and space will have to suffice.
In the seventh inning stretch,
we'll go outside and see if the light pollution
allows us to see the shooting stars;
maybe we will make a wish.
It sucks we can't get any moments back,
and we only learn that after the fact;
the apologist in me waits,
asking for forgiveness, not permission.
I've been trying to live
a suburban life for a while,
jumping bubble fences to BBQs,
but the past is a repository of what can't be salvaged.
I'll have to learn to stand in myself,
with someone else, like today and tonight,
stars and inside jokes shining bright.
pockets of meantime, I'll simply try
not to go into a kind of exile on August 13th.