Radio

The kitchen dark, the summer night air warm,
And my father at the kitchen table, radio

Turned down low, alone, listening to baseball.
My mother and I come inside from our swim,

Toweling off. The crowd is restless. Long silences
Between pitches in the play-by-play.

Look how he holds the radio in both hands
Like a steering wheel, thumb on the tuning dial

To catch the wavering channel, fighting static.
His eyes glitter like a field of fireflies.