The pine bat, label up,
splintered in the basement.
The worn, brown glove
completely unstrung.
Cleats worn to the sole.

When the leaves unfold,
and he feels the warm sun,
he remembers those days
of play and fun.

Turn two, allow one,
four for four, 0 for four,
no matter the score.
The memories run.

Those days he played
his game, our game,
his past, our pastime,
little league, farm team,
minors and majors.

It’s baseball.