a soldier and a dreamer

 

sitting on a mended wooden chair
surrounded by rawlings baseballs
swallowed in the deep pocket of his worn wilson’s glove
soft leather, his choice in ‘67

he recalled the plays, some flawless others not
ground balls never got past second base
when he wore that glove
so many years and memories ago

now the chair is in want of nails
the glove begs for lexol leather cleaner
and both, loving care
while neither has his attention

behind him, she sorts through photographs
remembering years before him
looking back at a previous lover
when mornings were born in black and white

the war took him, as wars do to young men
and made him old before his time
then spit him out like copenhagen chewing tobacco
and returned his body but not his mind

yet some, even the war rejected
not able to lay their bodies down
though wishing to play the game or die
in a way he never approved of

now he sits on a mended wooden chair
holding a worn wilson’s glove, a few beaten base balls
and wishes that he was on second base
stopping ground balls and memories