No-No

a poem

not drinking is most difficult on weekends
when the days are humid and the merciless sun
hangs above and there’s not much money for anything 

she looks at me as I look up from a book
her eyes convey a dull boredom and restlessness and
I suppose it is up to me to entertain her, 
like taking it easy in the cool air isn’t triumph enough for 
a Saturday 

	well, what do you want to do? 

	I don’t know, she says

we sit on the couch for another hour, reading, lounging, 
watching my boy Archer work at a no-hitter, the both of us 
dry, sober, aware, aware of being sober, her wanting 
ENTERTAINMENT, stimulation, something, something, 
and I say, it may look like nothing is happening, 
but a no-hitter is happening, Archer hasn’t let anyone on base, 
they call it a perfect game, 

	so, she says, in baseball, a perfect game 
	is when no one gets on base? 

	yes.
	
the bottom of the eighth, and Archer has two more 
innings to throw, all of those eyes waiting for failure, 
expecting it, the tension-- 
he is on his way and no one says anything for fear 
of jinxing the no-no and in baseball this is one of those things
just understood and respected
the tension tightening up in my chest with two down in the eighth, 
and on the 2-2 pitch the distinct crack of the bat,
the ball plops down in front of the right fielder and with that 
Archer’s game is over and the relief pitcher is brought out 
from the bullpen. I ask

        whadya say we go to the pool hall
        and get a beer?

	she smiles and laughs and gets dressed to go out, 
        her eyes sharp as the crack of the bat