One summer, I was a little league referee,

 

crouching like a joke

between yourself and yourself, thinking

little robin nest thoughts.

Not enough sun

for sunglasses, just

enough for sunscreen.

Everyday in the parking lot,

men carrying the same dresser

the color of the scorch

a bottle rocket leaves

behind, and holding it

a hand or knee lower

each time. Kids would

slide to base, making

scars. Like a bell,

I could reminisce

without even being

ironic, laugh at my uniform,

get laughed at, show them

how to brace for a ball

they expect. Their mitts mostly

too big. Some kind of story

in the meat of my teeth

like sitting on an egg.

A dog circling the soccer field

like a fly exploring a wide window

with no frames. Beyond the field,

a hill like a secret

I might tell you later.


Tyler Raso studies English and Religious Studies at Kenyon College. He is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize, and his poetry has been featured in The London Magazine, Off the Coast, and elsewhere. 

 

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