A little boy sits quietly at his desk
the summer breeze blows the curtain
from the window pane.

He has become unaware of the snapping of the clothes
on the line from the hot dry Midwest breeze.
The distant trains breaking
the sounds as they clack through town.

He fingers his baseball glove, following his imagination,
of diamonds that glitter from home runs,
and glistens from sunsets after loaded bases.

The smell of leather takes him to locker rooms,
sounds of cheers with
the snapping of the baseball bat hitting the ball.

Symphony sounds that make up dreams
that feed the body and soul of the little boy
at his desk, freckled face…looking past.

Past the ‘hopalong cassidy’ lamp sitting on his desk,
past the plaid sheets spreading his bed,
past the books that pile in waiting for homework.

He imagines all sounds real with promises;
“What a homerun that was!”
“What a pitcher I am.”

Swirling winds of dreams of a little boy
at his desk, in his room…
in the Midwest, dreaming baseball.

copyright: 2000 CMM
(dedicated to a friend who dared to dream)