Advice to the Young Right Fielder

Hold the glove to your face,

cupping your chin.

Peek through the holes

and the world will telescope out.

See your mother sitting in the stands.

See the pitcher swoop her fast arm.

Breathe in warm glove.

You have been put here

because you are good

at being wrong.

Be wrong well.

Catalog the dandelions,

the lumpy lawn,

the foul line’s chalky trace,

the cloud that rises from first base.

Stand, unready,

in the green nothing

you have been allotted.

Close your eyes.

Don’t worry.

Everything never

comes your way.