Coating the poem in cold varnish I hung it
Carefully on the drying rack
Not too taut lest the fabric tear; not too loose
Which just asks for sags and puckers.
Tilting my head to the right and looking
From five and a quarter feet away
(As the old men used to recommend)
I saw my father long ago writing a better version,
Piecing it together from odd scraps,
From bits of shattered light, from shadows,
From the echoes of unsaid words,
From memories of opening day
In 1936 when the Dodgers lost
8 to 5, playing the Giants at the Polo Grounds.
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