The Catcher

In those eyes you threw your sudden love, like a ball thrown hard at a catcher’s glove. And I felt it and waited, stunned, un-mistaken, wondering how I’d return it unshaken. To lob the ball was all to do. My arm was poor, but my throw was true. You left the mound. You turned your back. Had you forgotten your turn at bat? No bases run, No striking out, No popping flies or balls that fouled. An empty diamond. Home alone. My hand still stings from the ball you’d thrown. February 16, 2017 National Pastime Contest