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.