The newspaper lied.
They did not find you
on the floor. Instead
you spent the afternoon
pitching with your son,
your face catching the silence
of the yard
like a soft leather glove
lovingly broken in.
And the light, the remarkable light,
ran over you so carelessly
it looked like silver numbers on your shirt.
You threw the ball for hours
as if there were no chance
night would ever search the corners
like the crowd
finding places in the stands,
their eyes marking the hard mound of dirt
below. For hours.
As if there were nothing at all
lefl to explain.
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