the prospect

on blazing summer days
barefoot on burnt grass
they celebrated a mundane ritual
father and son playing catch

furious with concentration
the boy focused on the glove and let it fly
but as the seams ripped the distance between them
the pitch often strayed low, wide or high

confounded by ability
that consistently alluded control
the boy felt like a touted prospect
who could never crack the show

after years perched on pine
the boy found the failure he feared
but he’s still fumbling with his grip
and looking for control after all these years