Summer Love
Every once in a while
I fall in love
with a baseball player.
High school was spent
watching, waiting, thinking
one of them might cast their eyes
on me, and not the leather sphere.
A college roommate labored
as team bat girl and I witnessed
how she of blue eyes
could bat them
any direction and land a man.
In those many summers
I fell for The Stopper,
The Accountant,
The Nasty Boys -
how hat brim shaded the man
from fans as well as sun.
How bright white pants
gleaming in the mid-day rays
were pulled taut over thighs
How batted balls conquered fences
monsters then vanished
into lakes and bays and dreams.
How time stops
in that immortal moment -
pitcher in the wind up
on the cusp of his release,
batter in his pose
breath briefly held,
first baseman
cleats dug into hot dust
heart pounding in the pause.
In this cosmic alignment,
I am struck by love again.
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