On Sundays We Still Gather

On the field behind the school,

grown men, all of us

hitting baseballs,

shagging flies

under a tall blue sky.

The wayward summer wind

whispers our desire

(Russell to Green to Wiley

the crowd roars)

softly across the infield,

scattering secrets

to anyone who will listen.

We have been on this field

too many times not to know

the importance of dirt and details:

(Always slide away

from the tag when stealing).

The sound of the banter

has never been louder:

(C'mon Bill, hum baby, hum,

Shut `em down,

smoke `em).

Caps askew, pot-bellied,

our hearts still surge

with each stroke of a Sunday

when we step up to the plate,

swing, make contact,

and run the bases

to get back home.