Ronnie’s Glove

You let me take your baseball glove home with me.
A hopeful sign, something to seal our liking for each other.
I sat on the front steps, holding the soft, sweet, rugged smell of broken-in leather.
I wanted to keep it forever and feel a baseball’s swift, enticing snap when the glove folds and captures the ball—
a sound a boy’s heart longs for.
I wanted to slide into home plate and see the cloud of dirt settle on my clothes and face.
And for a moment, I wanted to be a boy.
I didn’t take the glove back to Ronnie the next day.
I just wanted to push my nostrils into the worn patina and breathe in time that would never return.
6-26