In childhood's grove of faithful
trees, where Spanish moss
hangs for atmosphere,
amid the shine of owl eyes I hear
the sound of the Astros playing ball.
Radio close to my father's head

he utters curses from his bed
to the surge of the announcer's voice:
Staub striking out. He thinks losing
is what his life's about, my father,
Houston the closest New Orleans
came to having a club

after the Pelicans' fifties scrub.
Tall, lithe shortstop,
he traveled with the All-Marines
in the thirties, playing the teams
Uncle Sam got up to boost troop
morale. My father, who ran

from Oklahoma and his alcoholic old man
into an eleven-year career,
struck out the day he found
the operating table, bound
by the pain of a perforating ulcer,
doctors doubting he would live.

Another score his sons would give:
two-zip, favoring Grandfather.
Wind in the branches, the owl's
vowel staccato. It's over the plate.
I hear the crack of the ball solid
against wood, my father deep

in the team he hated to love, sleep
far off, disappointment poised
and regal. Even the stars
agree tonight with the taste in the air,
unmistakable, of imminent rain