In college,
with tools of ignorance
I squatted, while like
a protective father
umpire’s hand
rested on my shoulder.
Sweat soaked
mask sliding
on dust clogged
pores,
fingernails
lost to foul tips,
fingers broken
by bounced balls.
Shift and block.
In early Spring
your hand sprouts bruises
and pop-ups blend
into sky
as eternal
as cleats clattering
on a concrete
floor.