He sat a tiny boy
with a large glove
that had been oiled
and pressed under
his pillow for
the requisite
week softened
hanging on his
hand at the
living room window
watching the rain
fall in buckets
said his mother
though he would
have run through
that front door
onto the wet grass
and caught that
new white ball
red seamed in
his first glove
but No
he waited at
the window
watching the
water stream
as his new
his first
glove intoxicated
him with longing
for that time
after the rain
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