Saturday, March 21, 2020

After finishing a William Saroyan story about love, I am stunned by the sight of the back of my own hand,
dry, wrinkled, deeply crevassed, skin no longer taut. I marvel at the aging of my 46-year-old body.
We walk the dog to the park and I see two empty, discarded Lysol cans at the foot of a giant pine.

I hold the leash loosely as the dog plays hide-and-seek with my wife, around and around the rock pile.
In the nearby baseball field, a terrible pitcher pitches a bucketful of lime green softballs to a portly batter
as five outfielders spread out so far into the adjacent ballfields that it’s impossible to mark the distance.