Jon Pineda
He will be older when I mention this again,
chalk dropped in straight lines each night
for nights on end, I’ll keep thinking about
him at the plate, two quick thumps against
the rubbery pentagon then the bat locking
into place, barrel high above his shoulder,
I’ll keep thinking, there is someone else’s
son winding up on the mound, going through
motions until that release into a slim tunnel
of air, white light, train suddenly flickering
its position, I’ll keep thinking I was there
to see it all, the swing connecting this time,
& yes, I screamed (you would, too),
for the blur refusing to become a ball.