Today's poem is by Joseph Green
Under a high fly ball to right
a boy runs in, calling I got it,
then changes his mind and backpedals.
No place anywhere is lonelier than right field now.
Half the parents in the bleachers pray for him
to get this one; then the other half give thanks
for what happens. The ball squirts up from the web
of his glove, a trout leaping out of water's grip,
and in the suspended moment before it falls
back into gravity's lap, it hangs over the boy
like an insult, so hard and spherical that he can't
even hear what everyone around him is shouting.
Copyright © 2012 Joseph Green All rights reserved
from That Thread Still Connecting Us
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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