Boys of Summer

Slow pitch, under the lights.
The late game
On a Tuesday. The sound
Of kicking cleats
As we shuffle in with leather mitts
And aluminum bats.
Texas humidity drips
From dusty jerseys
And sweats our cold cans
Of beer.

We spit, mostly seeds,
Clap hands on backs
Or pound fists
With a nod. The older ones
Stretch, while the younger
Ones adjust their gloves
Or check their bats -
Like soldiers before battle.
We are the boys of summer...
And it is time
Again
To PLAY BALL!