Softball At 60

is more slow
waltz than hip hop. 
A stretch at first is more 
awkward lunge than shiny ballet. 
I’ve dropped from first to ninth in the 
batting order—and so stand at the batting 
cage among those who cannot envision that 
movement requires effort. Thinking I’ve earned
either their admiration or pity.  Wondering if  
they’ve started to smell the leather and 
grass, hear the pop of the ball in 
the mitt,  feel the slight breeze
 that slows the heart beat, 
see the dirt it hurts 
so much to leave.

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Annie Breitenbucher is a technical writer living in Minneapolis; she previously worked for the Star Tribune newspaper where she covered the sports of running and triathlon. Her first poetry collection, Fortune, was published by the Laurel Poetry Collective. She has also had work published in two anthologies: Beloved on the Earth: 150 Poems of Grief and Gratitude (Holy Cow! Press) and The Wind Blows, The Ice Breaks: Poems of Loss and Renewal by Minnesota Poets (Nodin).