Between the Seams

Many things can
be seen between
the seams of a
baseball,

in the mud marks
and scuffs, the
chunks of its
dermis hunked out

like:
Afternoons spent begging
dad for to toss it in
the backyard.

Nights, face-up in bed,
lobbing it up,
knocking the ceiling tiles,
then it popping the back of the glove.

Saturday mornings skipping cartoons
to squeeze on a worn Reds
cap and pitch World Series games
to an overturned metal drum.

And in grassprints, prayers:
To hear a ting from the
singing metal bat, not a
silent swing, each at-bat.

That squinting extra hard
would help to find a
pop fly
against a blinding sky.

That life never got
any harder than sliding
face-first
into home.