Bottom of the 9th

By: Jack Anderson

 

When Uncle Wade called that game-winner to center,

Cardinals versus Pirates, hospital tray-table

laptop playoff divisional, Redbirds

the victims: all of us, Aunt Lynn, cousin Luke, bowled

over backs of hard chairs in chirping laughter, white-gowned

Pops, grunting, slammed the small screen shut,

 

and we forgot the EKG

fluttering, nostrils burnt

with rubbing alcohol, Pops’s

ceaseless coughing, wheezing like

Cardinals lived within him.

 

When the giggles and calls died

down, we knew it’d be the last time Pops

saw the Redbirds dancing, as cancer purged

his lungs and flew to the tips of his pale fingers.