Love Is Like Falconry," He Said. "don't

There Were So Many Pittsburgh Poets In My Hallway That If, At That Instant, A Meteorite Had Come Smashing Through My Roof, There Would Never Have Been Another Stanza Written About Rusting Fathers And Impotent Steelworkers And The Bessemer Convertor Of Love.

They Lay There For A Few Seconds, In The Dark, In The Future, Listening To The Fabulous Clockwork Of Their Hearts And Lungs, And Loving Each Other

Fathering Imposed An Obligation That Was More Than Your Money, Your Body, Or Your Time, A Presence Neither Physical Nor Measurable By Clocks: Open-ended, Eternal, And Invisible, Like The Commitment Of Gravity To The Stars.

Mr. Feld Was Right; Life Was Like Baseball, Filled With Loss And Error, With Bad Hops And Wild Pitches, A Game In Which Even Champions Lost Almost As Often As They Won, And Even The Best Hitters Were Put Out Seventy Percent Of The Time.

So It Was Scary, But That's How It Goes. To My Great Delight, I Discovered That It Did All Belong.