What a week for Cincinnati!

Kids of all ages exploding with excitement.

Gloves pulled from dusty boxes and corners of musty basements.

Fingers pushing apart leather fingers empty for decades.

Stiff leather waking memories like a old home movie.

American Summer 

Edward Hirsch 

Each day was a time clock that scarcely moved,

a slow fist punching us in, punching us out,

electric heat smoldering in the purple air,

but each night was a towering white fly ball

to center field — “a can of corn” — coming down

through stars glittering above the diamond.

Each day was a pair of heavy canvas gloves

hoisting garbage cans into an omnivorous mouth

that crept through thoroughfares and alleys,

but each night was the feeling of a bat

coming alive in your hands, it was lining

the first good pitch for a sharp single.

That summer I learned to steal second base

by getting the jump on right-handed pitchers

and then sliding head-first into the bag.

I learned to drive my father’s stick shift

and to park with my girlfriend at the beach,

our headlights beaming and running low.

I was a 16-year-old in the suburbs

and each day was another lesson in working,

a class in becoming invisible to others,

but each night was a Walt Whitman of holidays,

the clarity of a whistle at 5 P.M.,

the freedom of walking out into the open air.