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.
