The Vacant Lot Next Door

Photo by Pexels on pixabay

He works hard.

Digs into dirt now thawed.

Baselines reasserted,

makes sure tops of boulders show through,

ready to be tagged.

Wild grass reaching for blue

mowed down to playing level.

The rough, uneven ground slants

slightly towards bushes and marsh;

the graveyard for stitched leather.

Beads of sweat

drip into his eyes

run down his muscled arms

seep through his white tee.

The air chills him.

He breathes deep

smells damp earth, cut grass,

sweat.

One more round of the bases.

A last sweep of the field.

Need to make sure all is clear.

Safe.

Soon the kids will be back

just like he was every year.

Once the air starts to warm

and the ground firms

they gather, make teams, and throw

that first pitch.

He remembers the way his hands

vibrated with the bat

as it struck the ball.

Remembers the flight of white

against blue sky.

The feeling that this one is lost

in the bushes

as his legs carried him home.

Days go by and Albert waits.

His friends are off playing real life,

but sometimes he still finds himself

at the edge of the field.

Every day is warmer. He waits.

Then they come.

Bats and gloves in hand they ramble up

from down the hill

drift in like an early summer breeze. Ready.

One, he can see, has been waiting

in the yard next door.

The big kid who can’t run;

his feet turned in too much for speed.

Albert feels something inside

when the kids let this boy play.

They know this kid can hit

so get somebody to run the bases.

The boy’s slightly chubby arms

look bigger bent in batter stance

and when he swings

you know he is going to connect

and then he does.

As Albert watches

he feels like it’s him standing there.

The boy and Albert

not running in this moment

still seem to find freedom

in giving their gift.

Free as the ball leaving the bat

heading high into blue.

It means

they’re already home.

©2010 Joanne Young Elliott