I am not myself these days.
I am 21, trying to make it into the bigs.
I am 75, trying to make it to the store.
I take my glove and run out onto the field.
I take my lunch and go sit in the park.
I toss the ball to the second baseman.
I toss bread crumbs to the pigeons.
I check my stance in the batter’s box.
I check my pockets to see if I have my keys.
I take ground balls in the infield.
I take my medications.
I feel the hot, bright Florida sun.
I feel it’s going to rain soon.
I tap the dirt off my spikes with my bat.
I click my cane as I trudge back home.
I am not myself for six glorious weeks.
I am every hopeful kid in spring training,
dreaming of playing ball in a major league park.
I am not myself these days.