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