Catcher's Mound

In our garden
the neighbor boy
teaches me to catch,
to hold my right hand still,
and cover a baseball with my left,
not to flop two hands together,
girl fashion. He demands
I face the fast balls,
whatever he pitches.
He shows me how
to look him in the eye
and throw a ball hard,
straight into his catcher¹s mitt.

He teaches me
to find the root
of quadratic equations
and to dissect a frog.
We make cheese fondue,
churn ice cream,
and do the peppermint twist.
I date his best friend.

After ten years of our lessons,
sometimes hardball,
mostly soft, never easy,
I teach him how
to throw a curve.