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Sandlot
June 12, 2016
We didn’t own nice things
Our gloves were plastic,
As well as the ball
Which had now turned a muddy brown,
And when it SLAMMED into our plastic mitts,
A cloud of dust remained in it’s place
Every so often this plastic ball would break
Past the stitching;
We still played with it if a stitch popped loose,
And
- If we didn’t have the money-
We kept playing with it
‘Til it’s yarn would unravel
And so would our joy for the
Day
© Kristie R., Stewartville, MN
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