It wafted as if a morning birdsong,
An avid, a hopeful plea –
And off we’d go, just around the corner,
To a backstop in a park.

Six old, well-battered balls, and no need
For formal foul lines, home plate, or bases,
Just for one once neo-logistic descriptive,
Fungo, and some space beneath the sky
For those balls to leap,
Then surely nest within a baseball glove, over and over,
All this to fledge the tracking and catching into something
Just as easy, well, as child’s play.

Right around the corner and out we’d go,
To such a pleasance of lofty arcs,
A pot of gold without the rainbow.
But there’s a catch to every situation for sure,
And the birdsong changed and faded,
Just around that other corner.