Like smashed baseballs they are almost circles
on our front lawn, 30 feet apart, beige exceptions
to the flawless grass around our house.
Two, sometimes three, sometimes four times a day
my son and I play catch, our sneakers erasing green
into these bald spots as we toss back and forth.
Eight year old Liam winds up and stings my glove
with a fast ball and talks of Randy Johnson but
I see Sandy Koufax and, like inverted mounds,
the spots sink farther into the earth, beautiful
as my father’s tool handles polished smooth
by a life of hard work. We’ve thrown in rain,
we’ve thrown in darkness, once in March we
put on gloves under our gloves and threw in snow
and always to the soundtrack of our conversation,
a father and son’s seeds for a garden of love
I pray will bloom all seasons. Today the Chem Lawn
man examines the twin blots marring the perfect green
and says, "Nothing will ever grow there"
and I want to answer, "You’re wrong, Sir,"
as my son waits with his glove for another game
of catch, his feet ready to root even deeper
into our family ground.
This poem first published in Exit 13.
© by Edwin Romond.
Used here with the author’s permission.
Edwin Romond is a poet, playwright, composer, and educator. Now retired, he taught English for 32 years in Wisconsin and New Jersey. His award-winning work has appeared in numerous literary journals, college text books and anthologies (including these shown here), and has been featured on National Public Radio. Edwin maintains an active schedule of readings and presentations (check www.edwinromond.com to see if he's appearing anywhere in your area) and his most recent book is Dream Teaching (Grayson Books). A native of Woodbridge, NJ, Edwin now lives in Wind Gap, Pennsylvania, with his wife and son.
There are no comments for this poem yet.