I veered a bit away from a prompt to write a poem based on numbers when I realized how many words there are for two of things, and how many others based on two things conceptualized together. Throw in a reunion and a baseball game, and a poem was born.
I was younger when you got on the train. Only a couple of hours, and
So were you, of course, a gray hair more or less in your beard —
There, just below your lip — highlighted in the setting sun as you
Bend slightly over a spine-cracked paperback cradled in both hands,
Passing the time with a private detective who’s got a dilemma:
His duplex-mate might be a serial killer. Or he’s falling in love with her,
One or the other. You’ve got the ending sorted out two dozen pages
Before the big reveal, so you put it aside for someone else to finish.
I see it all as I laze on my couch watching the Twins.
Mauer hits an RBI double, bringing home a man
In the clarity of the midday sun, at nightfall here.