A Poem by James Hare
Waking, eating, traveling are a black hole lacking memory,
It’s instantly a mid morning in Coastal Maine.
Golfing with my old man on a 9 Hole course, signed in as guests of Saul.
When the tide comes in on 6 it creates a natural water Hazard.
Nice shots are awarded with paternalistic approval that leaves a warm glow akin to the similar warmth of the Maine sun.
Mom says the hole in the ozone up here is larger which makes it easier to get burnt. I don’t know if that’s bullshit or not.
Dad says the light up here is different. Better. That’s why artists love to paint up here.
This too may be bullshit.
For the past 20 years I’ve been telling people the same things as well- as if it’s fact. I have no interest in researching this.
Later, after another black hole time warp, comes The Afternoon.
The tide has receded and left dozens of tide pools along Cockle Cove.
Each tide pool creates its own little universe and ecosystem.
On first glance the pools seem barren.
But Ned shows me something.
A trick of sorts.
He catches a minnow, Chops it up with a rock and drops it into one of the tiny environments.
Life explodes all around.
Dozens of crabs and other creatures sneak out of hiding.
They have come to feast.
Another time warp.
It’s 9 o’clock in the evening and instead of looking down I’m looking up.
The Leonids are spread across the sky. Heightened by the thin northern air and the absence of city lights, the meteor shower is a work of art.
Thankfully, the town draws artists like flies to shit.
I’m laying on the grass next to the family mini van with the doors open.
The radio’s on.
No TV while we’re in Maine.
The Sox are on the radio and Joe Castiglione is fucking pumped.
There’s something timeless about radio and radio waves. There was an ending to an episode of LOST that illustrated the idea well.
Joe Castiglione is pumped because Brian Daubach went Deep again.
Brian Daubach is technically a rookie.
In baseball you can play games the season before and still be a rookie.
This is probably a technicality that lets team owners pay them less.
Brian Daubach is 27. That’s fucking ancient for a rookie.
He’s spent 7 long years in the minors making nothing.
Now he’s up in the bigs and absolutely raking the ball.
Dobbers batted almost 300 for the year with 22 Dingers. It feels like 20 of those came that August and 3 that night.
Brian Daubach and his August run were august themselves. Magic, like the Leonids, Tidepools, and radio waves.
God Bless Brian Daubach