Poetry

A blue ball

One blue ball, nothing special, that blue ball,
that you could pucker between your fingers,
throw high or low, lobbed or overarmed
to a sibling, or the peach tree that can’t catch.

So add another ball, mixing it up in the sky,
two open-mouthed arcs falling parabolic into
the hands simultaneously of sister and brother,
plotted together in the joyous evening air—

Unexpectedly a broad bean, long and green,
laughter, and a blue ball bouncing, escaping
down the drive; forgotten, nothing special,
that blue ball, as dusk darkens; moves inside.

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