When she’s in the kitchen
her man gets a run.
Twice he does.
And because it counts,
she decides
she’ll stay there when he’s at bat.
Her husband,
shouting out encouragement,
tells her what is going on.
She longs to see,
but is convinced
her absence from the screen
will bring the team
good luck.
It does.
Hitting in the fat
of the bat, it wins.
At dinner,
her husband tells her
he had heard the score
at breakfast,
that tonight’s game
was just a rerun,
that he had known all day
her team would win.
A rerun then.
They could see it Saturday again,
perhaps next month
in the wrap-up of the season’s games.
It will go in a can
and be taken out sometimes.
But gradually
over the years,
people will begin to see
a shadow on their screens.
And Zenith and Sony and GE
will not be able
to shake it loose,
nor make the image clear;
no matter
how many circuit cells
are shuffled
in the magnate case,
the shadow stays.
It darkens with the passing
of each year.
It is the shadow
of my little birdlike
mother running
into the kitchen
and staying there
so her team
will get the luck.