One little leaguer sits at the end of the bench
catching his new mitt in midair summersaults
his dangling cleats dancing to a music that whistles
4th grade melodies through a chain link backstop.
His father sneaks up behind him, pulls
the carefully shaped and creased brim of the boy’s cap
down over young blue eyes day-dreaming a sparkling
river of catfish and cane pole sunup.

I sit beside my son, nudge him, butt to butt,
in a sport more compelling than the dusty strike-out
about to happen. I ask the score
but know the answer, we’re losing.
I pretend that baseball has grown interesting. We sit
inning after inning covering this position.
It’s better than right field and I agree,
pulled from a reverie of my own–
a distant June and the ring of a home run,
a quiet park bench,
leaves of ginger settling on my shoulders.