Before the game

These are the words I wrote for Cameron
after we talked about how a man can write
a poem. In the beginning they were light ...

Every word I said hung in the air like fruit
growing on tree of knowledge.

He is the son.

We suck down our spaghetti somewhere in the North End
off of the gold street lights of a blustery slick Hanover Street
and talk about the way the puck will slide across the ice.

The pinot noir is deep and dry until my lips pucker
and my head aches for want of salvation.

I am the father.

He laughs so hard he holds his side, and we rejoice
because baseball will start in a few weeks
when the pitchers and the catchers report.

The spirit of the new year is a two faced God,
and a serpent begging us to eat.

Papa is dead.