When I was small children—
a small child—
I filled my hands with fallen leaves.
Nine in number.
One for each position on the ball field.
I used river smooth stones
to represent the other team.
Fifteen of them.
They needed subs during the game.
Four round magnets
taken from the refrigerator
represented the bases.
I used a crooked stick to measure
the base paths
but never got the diamond shape
to have ninety-degree angles.
The air in the back yard was not quite right
for my pretend stadium
with the rot of the compost pile
seeping out from the covering dirt.
So I set up in the side yard under the maple.
I was all twenty-four players
and two coaches—
one of which picked up a red phone
to call the bullpen.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney