Catching My Grandson

Oh, look , old Galileo whispered, look, we move .
And burning, burning in the sky, the sun stood still.
Earth turned and spun and whirled about the ball,
but no one else believed. Not then. Take time ,

my father called, watching our first adopted toddler fall,
push up and waddle to my lap. It goes so fast .
Yeah, yeah, I thought, patting my daughter’s goldilocks,
thumbing her tears away. I loved that chubby cherub

with the grapejuice grin, took turns changing Pampers,
scrubbing that kid in bubble baths, giving time
and horsey rides, a thousand tasks each day before I slept.
I accuse myself, I confess I doubted my old man.

What passes fast, I thought, was time enough to do
what must be done”another flight, reports overdue,
the grass I had to cut. The earth does turn,
no, spins. I crouch now, catching my grandson

firing the ball, the red seams spinning.
He’s older than his mother was that night
my father called, when my knees could duckwalk a mile,
my shoulders and biceps bulged. Ouch , I mutter, now,

a pain each time I lob the baseball back,
my right arm stiff, old shoulder bony,
the hard ball wobbling, plopping in his glove.
And now he burns it hard, curve ball inside

I have to dive for, falling again for physics
faster than reflex, and I’m laughing on the ground,
hugging the ball, my grandson laughing,
staggering off the mound, pounding his glove.