little leagues

there are four fields.
all neatly
groomed and swept.
the dirt
as fine as silt,
the grass
as green and lush
as a golf
course at the country
club. white lines
perfectly drawn
for the day,
and each field has
a game. small children
with orioles
and reds, and nationals
for names.
and the p.a. announcer
calls each
child as he comes
to bat
and swings. sometimes
the ball
reaches the plate
other times
it's over the back
stop, or strikes
a child harmlessly
in the back. every
now and then the ball
will hit the bat and
they run like small
pinwheels, their
hats flying, their
faces red in the sun.
happy no matter what
the outcome.
in the outfield
some are picking
daisies, others
blowing bubbles and
singing to themselves,
staring numbly into
the clouds,
and the parents on
the sideline, deeply
invested in
cleats and gloves,
in drinks and food,
trophies for those that
win, or tie, or don't
finish at all and lose.
they yell out, swing
swing, swing batter
swing, keep your
eye on the ball.
catch with two hands,
remember what I told
you, what we practiced.
now run, go, run now.