When Have You Known Happiness

When you find your old brown glove with the black net,

the dirt mound rises through your nose like a fast pitch

you can’t see. The ball leaves your hand or you let it go

and it is torn with the red weave loosened by the game.

There’s salt on your lips and sweat in your armpits.

The glove begs you to put it on and you don’t have to

beg to remember your cleats digging into sand or the long

arched flight of the ball before it slides into your palm

and vibrates like an anthem. The crack of the bat sounds

and the bleachers pitter-patter from the rain

that has started to fall. Each drop lets whatever hold

it had on you go and you steal into home

face-first with the orange clay turning in your nose.
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