The boys running the bases like rabbits
scurry to far-off places, not moving
toward targets—just moving. Montie Jean
recalls the ballgames she played as a child
in the dusty pasture where milo died
early. She can’t believe she was ever
as small as these kids. One sits on the bench
crying. Another has smeared snot and dirt
up the side of his face and into his hair.
Her great-grandson stands in right field, tiny
as a red plug in the Battleship game
she used to play with him. He wouldn’t know
what to do if a ball bounced out his way,
yet he fiercely stands his ground and pretends.