I have a baseball in a box,

28 Jan

a leather pearl on my shelf.  The box is clear to show
red stitches and a smudge on Rawlings where the bat
greeted it with a rough kiss. 

I study it and conjure up the errant arc over first base;
the upraised arms and hands that would have a lofted relic.
HERE IT COMES! I cried, and grabbed it. 

Some guy exclaimed he too had touched the pearl,
but the usher arrived to check my fingers.
All too soon, the sting had quit the skin.

A baseball had graced me, had been sent my way,
so I keep it in a box, and I still pray
for off-field outfield hits and sudden sunny days.

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