By Ted Kooser

Ball glove a big clown’s hand on my hand
and punching my other fist into it
as one was expected to do, ten or twelve then,

I stepped backward and backward, farther
and farther away from the bright, buzzing
diamond, and on into the dewy, tall grass

and ticking crickets, where the Milky Way
began to take over, and, stepping backward,
I entered the universe, the stars brighter

and more numerous the farther I went,
the air cooler, and I no longer cared much
about softball, about catching that high fly,

the ball coming down out of the mothy glow
like a planet, slapping right into my glove,
teammates far in the distance, applauding,

as I backed into that great, spacious dark
sprinkled with stars, feeling light on my feet
as if I were floating, spreading my arms out

like wings as I slowly fell back against it
though not really falling, dissolving into it
backwards, eons beyond center field.

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Ted Kooser is a former United States Poet Laureate, a winner of the Pulitzer Prize, and lives with his wife in eastern Nebraska. He writes for a few hours every morning and writes pretty well about once every two weeks.