-Tossing the baseball-

Look.

I’m small.
But I can catch.

Friday afternoon
And on the other side of town,
A kid and his older brother

Play catch in a field and Priest
Of the parochial school they attend, tosses
The baseball to them.

On my side of town, Priest is playing catch
With me and some neighborhood friends

In a small, tar-faced playground
Adjacent to the larger baseball park
Across the street from my house.

Priest tosses the baseball, gently arching,

Mindful of our youth.
Gerry whispers to Henry:

"He throws like a girl".

My feet are readied in their sneakers.

The glove is anticipating,

Leveled at the height of the shoulders

And slightly outward to receive the ball.

The glove is new, but I’ve broken it in

With the help of my father, the procurer
Of the six-fingered glove, of twine and olive oil.

Now It’s frozen in its placement of space,

My right hand tucked deeply into it,
The pocket to the face of Priest.

We’re young; seven or so, and Priest
Enjoys the fellowship he creates.
Priest.. enjoys.. the fellowship.

A few of the fathers
Observe the rite-of-passage nearby.
My father is on the road
Toward Buzzards Bay,
Selling booze to the seasonal bars
To earn my keep.

Norena Ferreira stands quietly

At the chain-link fence in a dress I haven't seen, then..

Underhand.
Priest throws the baseball

Underhand.

Overhand to my friends.

Underhand to me.

Look.

I’m small.
But I can catch.


The flight of the ball

Sweeps me into the lazy
Architecture of its arc.
My legs open-up, the knees
Bend into the flight,

The glove is rotated, waiting
Face-up like an empty nest and

Sinking slowly with a purpose,
The baseball

Drops to the glove's open pocket
And as quickly leaps from the pocket
Like a runaway child, falling

To the tarmac of the playground, where

Friday's twilight tincture's the atmosphere, where
Priest shouts-out: "A real good try!" Where

Norena Ferriera stands quietly

At the chain-link fence in a dress I haven't seen.

Quequechan / c.1950