The boy’s left cleat sat motionless on the wrinkled porch,
no longer gouging and kicking up dirt violently,
now freed from its laser-quick owner.

The tiny red plastic fanged cleat, abandoned by its pal,
slumbered diagonally to its red twin,
its toe smooching the other cleat’s heel,
while plopping on a thin bed of red clay.

Bop reclined on his porch wicker, mouth as wide and smiley
as a spectator at a top-notch comedy show.

The man recalled his tow-headed grandboy’s power pitching
just a sunset past, witnessed by cheering and applauding fans
and a gallery of summer stars.

The child, barely ten rainy seasons past his natal debut
just three schoolyards from his pitching mound,
tossed baseball darts as he overpowered larger little leaguers.

Their failed swings released welcome breezes
in the thick overheated night.
A few doors down the road,
granddad’s little hero dreamed of more whiffs
while Bop’s mood instantly soared moonward
as he replayed the boy’s smooth as silk performance
in his seasoned and scattered mind.

The granddad thought, life is great!