Now You Know
what you have to do. the next time. It isn’t about jumping over fences anymore, when the baseballs flew into Mrs. Raconelli’s yard. The ‘oh shit’ task of figuring out the next game tactic, making the balls less difficult to get to when they disappear from the common arena—the road. It’s the combustion point of when to say goodbye to the thing you love the most to hang on to, how it’s done. The scar you’re going to make on the right shin as you scrape to bleed over the wobbly metal frame you didn’t notice as the knickers tore. There’s the German Shepherd on the far left of the next lawn where the terror of being noticed reminds you to eat better at dinner, next time, so you’ll be more awake for the next game, better pitch, better aim, Soft paw.