(poems go here)

Kind of the way a baseball is hard

under the scuffed leather.

Rough and pealing into your hands

and your fingers grip tight

for a fastball.

Just enough grit to know

it’ll stain your hand.

Almost like

paint chips off an old canvas.     Once a masterpiece

of good old American fun.

This may be its last throw

before some well meaning mother

curveballs it to the dumpster.

The fringe

that once made up tight lacings,

tickles your thumb

as you release.

The thud of leather absorbing

motion and momentum.