Missed Catch

The ball came easy once,

like a rhythm in my palm,

a thing I caught without thinking.

Now it slips, scuffed leather

whipping past outstretched fingers—

empty grass swallows the sound.

The kid laughs, expects me to be the same,

but my hands have lost their memory,

clumsy as a broken clock.

I want to tell him

I’m still here, still trying.

But all that lands is silence

and a ball falling too fast.