My Son’s Lions
He keeps them on a shelf as long and slender
as a clocktower hand—
the minute, not the hour—
all stuffed, plastic and reglued ceramic sorts
that’ll soon be binders of baseball cards
of the early ‘90s variety, hoarding Ken Griffey Juniors
as I did my father’s George Bretts.
I normally dealt them in my most authentic Majestics,
on suburb blocks far and wide.
What a great trade, my father used to say to introduce
long-lasting summer evenings, watching the game
and hoping the housing market didn’t collapse.
