Bless the Farm Leagues by Daniel Gleason

Bless the turnstile too tight for your young hands
to push past, the three silver arms I bumped
with my hip that we shot through together
like two sunflower seeds spat through tight lips.
Bless the hawker of programs who received your
quarter in exchange for a line-up and scorecard. 
Bless the batter’s box chalk before the lead-off hitter
from the away team roughs it in.  Bless the ridges
on the bleachers on our backsides.  Bless the
donkey’s bray of the umpire on strike three. 
Bless your ice-cream-in-a-mini-helmet-sticky-hands.
Bless all the words you almost got right singing
take me out to the ballgame.  Bless all the foul balls
ever hit into the stands in every minor league
park ever and bless the children scrambling and the adults
making the catch and handing it over grinning. 
And bless the car ride with you, my son, asleep
and still sweating in the blessed back seat
bless our way around third bless us heading for home.