Maybe in the name of the moon’s black eye
the light proved it had nothing to win
late in the ninth inning of nothing
when all the hotdogs and beer were gone
happy to take the long ride home
back to the land of winners and losers
in stomachs made happy by neon gods
who made us the slaves of numbers.
Maybe nothing more can be said
when it comes to boredom and artificial turf
choosing each other like immigrant flesh
stumbling on vowels and consonants used
to construct the name of rescue.
Maybe we never slide into home
in time to make the scoreboard sing
from the mouths of a thousand strangers.
Maybe the lights all go out
as a way of reminding the key in the car,
home is not a turn to the right
it’s feeling the seat belts love you.
Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems are forthcoming in The Chiron Review, The Bitter Oleander, Plainsongs Magazine, Blue Mountain Review, Drunk Monkeys Magazine, Nixes Mate Review, Lily Poetry Review, The Adirondack Review and San Pedro River Review.