It was a long way home, so
we stopped at the dollar store.
She bought snacks, I bought fireworks–
and we had to wait outside for fifteen more minutes, but
he came out smiling, like he used to,
holding a wiffle ball and bat packaged together.

I don’t know where the excitement came from,
but it brewed and bubbled–
ridiculous. Because we were all in our twenties.
We stopped at the nearest park on the highway,
deserted, because who goes to a park on the highway,
on a weekday night, when it’s about to rain,
to play wiffle ball.

There wasn’t much grass, so
we assigned positions in the parking lot.
She was the catcher, I was the pitcher,
and he was at bat. We marked the bases with
what we found in our pockets:
her car keys, which she used too much,
my cell phone, which I didn’t use enough,
and his wallet which he forgot later.

Hesitantly, I started underhand, but
then started pitching, like I wanted to.
I stood sideways, holding the ball in both hands.
I lowered it from my face to my chest,
now gripping it with three fingers:
right leg back, right arm loaded–twist wrist,

right leg forward, right arm surge–wrist flick–
and the ball flew! Well, floated,
at least six feet away from him.
But he ran to hit it anyway.
He made a wonderful laugh as the bat made contact.
The ball wasn’t even, so it couldn’t fly straight
even on a windless day, but I thought that
that wasn’t so bad.

He left a month later
and became another person, like we all do.
She left without saying a thing.
I waited, and waited,
then left.

The fireworks and snacks didn’t last, and neither did the game.
But I still have the ball. Sometimes I pick it up from the desk
and go back home.

right leg back
right arm loaded
twist wrist
right leg forward
right arm surge
wrist flick