Omaha

Once I dreamed of Omaha
in early summer.
I saved spare change
to finance the trip
to sit in the stands
with my grandson
or in a grander dream
to watch him pitch
at Rosenblatt.
Far-fetched dreams.
If they happen,
I will not be there.
Once I believed baseball
diamonds were sacred
geometries. Add sunshine
and grandkids,
and they could soothe
any trouble
like a well turned double-play.
Lift the spirit
like a line-drive streaking
for the centerfield fence.
Watching the game
is a pale passion
when the invitations stop.
Once my granddaughter
gave me a piggy bank
with the body
of a baseball. She feared
it was a stupid gift.
It was perfect
even with the crack by the slot
that Nana had to point out.
It was our last Christmas.
I still use it when change
jingles with too much loss.