dinner's ready

you smell your mother's
stew seeping out from
the black casement
windows and hear her
voice calling everyone in
as summer wrings
you wet with running.
you see her at the screen
door, apron on, her black
hair pulled back,
her glasses slipping
on her nose. come in,
come in. she yells, dinner's
ready. now.  you
look and wave and yell
back, just one more
out, one more run,
one more sprint
around the chalk
made bases, one more
stretching of
the day a little longer.