The Catcher
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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
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2017
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