AT WILKERSON FIELD

  

Kid’s softball is over now;

The summer twilight gathers

About us like a cloud.

 

The winners and the losers

Slap each others’ hands in line:

“Good game, good game,” they murmur.

 

The minister calls out “Wait!”

He gestures for both teams to form

A circle round the home plate.

 

I’m not close enough to hear

More than his opening words:

“Lord, we know that you don’t care

 

“Anything about softball—

But you do care about us...”

The rest is the crickets’ call.

 

Little Casey aims his bat

At a foam-rubber softball:

Swing and miss! He runs with that,

 

Not minding which base is which—

Then he wields his bat and waits,

While twilight throws the last pitch.