Back In Little League

A field of grass, runways sanded and topped 

with four cream bases waiting to be scuffed 

brown by laced cleats and hand palms. And a mound 

ten inches in height for where the pitcher stands

makes the foundation of what structures man,

or breaks him. 

Back unswerving, right kneecap locked in tight, 

north side of pitcher’s wrist settled snug near hip. 

A runner on first teasing towards second 

and a baseball’s red stitching puzzle piecing 

the conjoining ridges in the pitcher’s 

palmistry. With a choice; look left, pitch forward.

Winds up, raises knee, 

pitch zings high left corner. 

From first, runner flees, 

darts towards second base. 

Pitcher never looked left. 

His father complains, “You always look left!”

“Know your surroundings! “You always look left!”

Next year, pitcher, the backseat passenger

of his dad’s four door compact, took impact

from a diesel on the farm-to-market road

that T’d with the driveway. Father was fine.

Pitcher hooked to machines holding his last breaths on lines in a box. 

Dad’s tears puddled the crevices of the hospital bed’s blanket. 

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___/     \_/   \__/            \___/\_/   \__ “Why didn’t you look left?” ________________________