The Baseball Mitt

My father's Roger Maris mitt Was kept in perfect health. It showed no wrinkles no blemishes Nor flakes of skin. Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather, Its pocket was well stretched As it yawned with each breath. Bathed in linseed oil, It was a dark jersey cow As it slept like an oyster With a pearl cradled in its palm. My father's attention was precious as gold; His time was well spent with little to spare. He was my coach, he was my father Playing catch on our field of honor. Years passed by with a blink of an eye; His fraying attention became unraveled By his job, by money, his family's health And his aging body. His golden mitt seldom saw light; Snaring a baseball was wishing Upon a starless night. With patience and compassion My father guided my life, By catching a baseball my self-confidence grew. But, his life was snatched by death His game forever ended. He was part of my foundation Which will never fade from sight As long as I remember, a baseball Caught on an autumn night. Standing in my backyard, I see my father's mitt Cradling me; Like a baseball I recline In his loving arms forever.