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.