Before the first error, the first strikeout,
it is possible to dream of
winning streaks, walk-off home runs,
and the wind that carries your hopes
as high as an arcing blast that settles
deep into the right field bleachers.
I am nine,
and the little league field lays out before me;
I am sixty-nine,
and my heart lays out on the green carpet,
as ballplayers, young enough to be my grandsons,
take the field on opening day.
I am in the ball park, the box seats, with beer,
yelling for my beloved home team.
I am on the mound in my mind,
peering in for the catcher’s sign.
What? He walked on four pitches?
No matter, get the next batter.
Time, past, present, and future,
presented to me by the baseball gods,
who have granted me one more season in the sun.