Some Things You Never Lose

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SOME THINGS YOU NEVER LOSE


I was fast, and I played right field

because I had—in diamond 

vernacular—a cannon on


my arm. I’d love to watch  

them chatting the coach

on first, knowing they’d try to stretch


from first-to-third on a Texas-leaguer,

and then it would happen and I’d uncork

a frozen rope, watching it hiss 


on their heels then overtake 

the runner as he slid into the tag. 

My labrum’s torn now, but I still 


watch them run and can still hurl 

it: turns out that pride has just

such seams and a familiar heft in my hand.


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