With untaxed money a thief gave me
before his death by disappearance,
and inheritance from an unnamed aunt,
I purchase a major league baseball team.  

I do it for the fun of giving them a name.
Their hometown is a moving target
on a map of Texas, so I’m thinking Amigos,
or Hombres if Amigos is too pink.  

I interrupt a board meeting no one told me about.
They stare at me with a lot of white in their eyes.
Their motionless faces say I’m the boss
they’d stab if I turned my back.  

However, they seem to know what they’re doing,
all this business stuff with columns and lines,
so I back out of the room like I’m delegating.
I’ll just work on the name.  

My CEO catches me in the hall.
He has a John Waters mustache.
I need to stay on top of this thing
or its going to get away from me.  

We schedule a meeting for Sunday
at the place where the thief gave me money.
I jot down some ideas:
Figure out how to make money.  

Pleased with myself, I put down my pen.
I’ll think up one or two more before the meeting.
Owning a baseball team is doable.
But it feels like work, and I’m supposed to be retired.  

I wake to birdsong and revelation.
My teeth and tongue are imitating the bird’s.
I’ll sell the baseball team and learn to sing like a bird!
But research reveals that’s not how birds sing.  

I lose faith in myself. My brain is a cotton ball.
Retirement isn’t where every day is Sunday.
It’s a day not among the seven that govern labor.
It’s a baseball team that doesn’t have a name.