Bowl Of Silk
Scully peels the static curtain back
to Los Angeles, eighty-eight. The windows
are all open. October flies descend into the salsa,
the Reagans are nearly packed.
You can almost taste the pressure mounting,
the living room a forest of tall legs
through which I’m peering at a wood-paneled
television set, broadcasting a sullen Bulldog,
draped over the dugout like a soppy towel.
My father chews his fist. Lasorda sweats
and it rains in the suburbs. Lasorda sighs
and the wind howls up from the Ravine, the last
of the river is drying, the decade along ...