Muscle Memory

for Joseph, Summer 2020

You threw against the taped strike zone
on the garage door until I came down
to take my place in a game of catch

that began in ‘60 in an alley
with my brothers: catch, turn, reach

release, bend, catch, turning again
as they did with each other, with
my father, as I did through school

and the madness that posed as adulthood
way before you were born—then,
easy as walking, breathing, speaking,

the ball became a spinning word
between us, understood in the pocket

of a glove, in fingers finding a seam,
not squeezing, letting a new flight
dive into the air between us. Now,

though every hope is freighted,
the plague abates for a month,
so you bring your daughter to visit.

When she toddles toward her grandmother,
we resume for as long as my elbow allows

and the ball rests easy in our hands
while we stretch and toss, and our feet
dance the dance they’ve always known.