by Paul Smith
We started out fresh
in April
with a new ball
a ‘league’ ball
we called it
ivory colored
smooth
round
red stitching
we couldn’t get our nails
under
games went till dark
innings uncounted
till an dispute ended
them
or a lost ball
it survived
mud, dust, the smell
of gutters
disappearance in the hedge
or was it a jinx
by mid-July
it wore the unlucky face
of a sharecropper
a face lined with betrayal
fighting a losing war
with time and rain
by late September
embalmed with electrician’s tape
soggy, half-dead
lopsided
an oblate spheroid
it welcomed last rites
on that cellar shelf
as another cockeyed
semi-round object
took its place
not cowhide
but pigskin