Saturday summer evenings,

we’d go down to the lake

to watch the girls’ softball.

The games were long and relaxed,

slow-paced, almost languorous.

We went to watch the pitchers,

each one with her own unique style:

the baroque wind-up, the eccentric

underhand turn and release

with a curlicue twist, the knee dip

then slightest shake of the head.

Through the heat and murmur

of conversation the occasional

a cheer or jeer from the stands.

From the Pav, music on the PA

warming up for the dance later

drifted across the vague wash

of surf through the summer night:

the sound of the Shirelles singing

I’ve been told when a boy kiss a girl,

take a trip around the world


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