-breaking-in the new 5-fingered glove-

bring it home

from the Gob Shops Store.
take it out of the bag.
snip the irrelevant
tags from its hide.
leave the bag on the table.
if it drifts to the floor
It's not your concern.

the life it briefly knew is done.

It's a dead bag now.
grab the slick,
heavy tin of olive oil
from the kitchen cupboard.
sit with the glove in your lap
at the edge of your bed.
drizzle the olive oil
straight from the tin
into the pocket.
use both hands. the tin is heavy.
the tin is slick.
put it on the floor.
your mother needs it
for the fried eggs in the morning.
your grandmother needs it
for just about everything. 

rub the olive oil into the glove.
use the dishrag
nabbed from the hook at the sink.
put it back when it's done.
your mother will need it
to swipe the oilcloth clean before breakfast.
oil the pocket.

spend the time necessary.

oil the pocket, not the fingers
laced tight with rawhide.

pull the thumb-tab out.

don’t be afraid.

pull it out all the way.
the tab will steady the thumb
when the game is played.
don't oil it!
move the fingers in and out.
free them from their stiff,
Rawlings charley-horses
and the brilliant Gob Shops shelf.
spend the time necessary.
rub the olive oil in.

press your old baseball into the pocket,

the one unravelling at the seams,
the one no longer chosen to play,

the ball which surrendered its sheen

for the sake of the game,

and close the fingers tightly around it.

tie the glove with twine.

tie it up.

don’t use tape!

tie a knot —

the same knot as your sneakers.

clear a space on the bedroom dresser

below the mirror

away from the spills of the frantic kitchen.

it’s okay to pick it up,

feel it,

breathe it in.
that's the scent of cowhide

rubbed with virgin olive oil.
soon it will know the scent of the game.
test the weight with the palm of your hand,
the glove hand,
the right hand,
the left-fielder's hand.
In the morning, tell them:

"nobody touch this!

leave it right here!"
In the morning, show them:

"leave it here, just like this!"

home from school.

you want to open it.
you want to cut the twine,
watch the fingers open
like the petals of roses,––
like a succulent releasing the scent of its olives.
you want to let it breathe.
you want to slip your right hand into it.
you want to bring it outside into the sunlight
across the street, ready to play,
into the park at the left field fence,—
nab the maiden flight of its first line drive.
but not yet. don’t open it. one day to go.

just one more day..

1952 (?) 1952