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.