I text my wife
just as the home team
runs onto the field,
tell her I love her

and not to forget
to pick up the chicken
and her green shampoo.
Crows form a line,

leaning over the edge
of the stadium roof—
a bad omen for the home
team already reeling

from a long losing streak.
I ran away to the circus
once, wrapping a few
items in a kitchen cloth

and tying it to a stick—
we did those kind
of things in those days—
only to return a failure

who wasn’t even gone
long enough to be missed.
I can’t say how, but I’m
pretty sure it’s the crows

who’ve brought this on—
the lions, and the lion tamer’s
daughter who befriended
me silhouetted on

the huge Marlboro sign,
the one the opponents’ leadoff
batter lifts the first pitch over—
another game without mercy.