the back deck

a gradient of black to gray
a bubble of light from the makeshift bulb
under the gutter
attracting moths to the roof
the smell of fresh blood
bringing mosquitos to our back deck
the burning of chemicals to keep them at bay
but i’m wearing a flannel and jeans anyway
i think it’s almost the seventh inning
the voice of the broadcaster
somehow never gets tired
as it fights through the crackles
of am radio
i thought my dad might be asleep
but he smiled and looked at me
when the mets scored 
to make it 2-3
and the voice of the broadcaster
had hope
for a brighter future 
for the team