Sandlot

Flat rough field

Flat enough,

Just barely flat enough

To run without too much trouble

Wheeling around the base paths or chasing

Wild hop grounders

That danced with infield rocks.

Flat rough field

Full of heroes

Fifteen or so legends

In fifteen or so minds

Whose sandlot deeds became mythic

With endless re-telling from imaginary broadcasters.

Flat rough field

Sweat covered midmornings

And dusty late afternoons

Sweltering days

Frozen in time

Rippling heat figures and late day shadows

With eyes forever on the ball

Bats dented and splintered swinging through the slow summer air

Powered by late afternoon weary arms

Held by hands still stinging from last inning’s line drive

Late dusty shadows

Called by distant voices to dinner

Scattering

Drifting in lines that are rarely ever straight for home.