Knowing it could not stop
the dead from passing

or the leaves from drifting,
morphing into banks of deep

snow against the gray
& sullen barns of February,

I bought
a catcher’s mitt,

comforting as mashed potatoes
steaming with my favorite

gravy. By the time I have
conditioned it with Neatsfoot,

perfumed it with sweat,
there will be finches and

baseballs in the air.
And I, Magic Al, will have

escaped the cloaked cell
of winter depression–

using only
a ball and glove…

just in time, again,
to play some catch with a friend.