summer days

in the summer
as you came home from
work,
covered in debris
and dirt,
paint and dust,
your son would be
waiting on the steps
for you to arrive.
a glove in
his hand, a ball,
a bat, and your
glove too.
and off you'd go
to the field
you called the pit,
because it
was always swampy
and filled with
rocks
and shrubs, dogs
running free.
you can still
see the motion of
his long skinny arms
swinging
the bat, tossing
the ball, the smack
of it hard
into your glove.
how blue the sky
was then,
how endless and
joyful those summer
days.