I am running to the baseball field by myself
where I want to be the green cage back stop.
No ball gets past the back stop.
Between games, I am throwing my glove,
trying to knock down the ones stuck on the top
while my father mends a hole where the chain link meets the ground.
Growing sweet on the fence
next to the rust red storage containers
are the honeysuckles.
I am picking the yellow ones,
the sweetest of the bunch,
gently pulling the flowers apart.
I am the honeysuckle
and its sweet, delicate bubble
that I bring to my lips.
I am my lips
put it in there, your bread & butter, whattaya say now,
chanting in unison
let’s go, here we go, let’s go.
I am sitting, next to a teammate in foul territory
on a pile of extra infield dirt
waiting to get in the game,
to fill a hole.
My eyes are not thirsty.
I am happy
that my left pant leg is streaked,
my hands, caked orange.
I am my father’s hand
reaching into his pocket
for some loose change.
I am a warm, soft pretzel.
I am confetti-tossing a handful of crab grass,
watching the wind blow.
I am peeling the leather
off a seam busted baseball
the lawnmower found and spit out
like a sunflower seed.
Unravelling enough black yarn
to fly a kite
revealing a small rubber ball.
I am inspecting it for meaning
which I do not find.
I am walking by myself at night
to meet Ryan at the rust red storage container.
Under the lights we are standing alone in the middle of two fields,
replaying last week’s plays.
First pay check folded in our back pockets,
planting posts, assembling the home run fence.
I don’t care
if I ever
hit a home run.