Once or twice a year,
while boys are shagging balls
in the park across the street,
I, a middle-aged Ponce de Leon,
rummage through the garage,
foundering in a sea of boxes.
At last I find my glove
and ease it on as I always do,
pound the pocket with my fist
and tell myself I could play today –

but I want to remember
Joe Dimaggio the way
he raced from first to third,
his graceful outfield style
and power at the plate.
Let someone else watch
an idol hobble around the bases
in an Old Timers game.
So I return my glove to its proper place,
to be retrieved whenever I see
a ball spinning toward me
from my summer days.