by John Grey
Here I am
in center field,
blue sky,
ball falling,
crowd on edge,
glove flapping
like an albatross’s wing,
now what’s my name again,
where do I live,
who are my parents,
am I five
or twelve or fifteen,
can I tie my own shoelaces,
do I leave the toilet seat
up or down,
am I right-handed, left-handed,
what’s the color of my hair,
am I good at math,
do I know my geography,
what’s that song
that I can’t stop humming,
do I really like that blonde girl
from the next street over,
where are my knees,
what’s this big orange thing
protruding from my hand,
and what about that white projectile
that’s heading in my direction,
do I grab it,
do I let it drop,
why are the other guys
yelling at me,
why am I where I am
on this scruffy patch of green,
a fence behind me,
more green and then
a diamond shape ahead of me,
what is my purpose in life,
is it the very same as my purpose now,
this very minute,
am I a hero or a fool,
do I think too much
about all that goes
without thinking?