Soaked

Back then, we are boys

still, heading out school

doors for morning recess

carrying bats, ball, gloves,

bases—the grass dew-sparkled

on the long walk to the cool

shadows of trees stretching

across our grassy diamond. 

One boy is nicknamed Garvey;

another Patek; a third Cleveland’s

Joe Charboneau, who we heard  

could open bottle caps with

his eye socket. Much later,

one of us will die young;

one battles alcoholism;

a third becomes a Senator,

yet on this clear Spring

morning little matters

except soft singles over second,

skinny legs running wildly

around first, the dew soaking

our blue jeans to the knees.