The pitcher returns to the mound
after Tommy John surgery. I mean

immediately after—he’s out there 
arm-in-a-brace gritting his teeth

in an empty park on that hill
of dirt that has defined his life

since Little League. The doctors 
chased him into the parking lot,

his teammates and manager begged
in a flurry of all-caps texts

but he drove GPS-silenced
to the stadium after midnight,

finding his way by starlight
the way indigo buntings do

to get to Poughkeepsie 
or wherever after a winter

in the tropics, maps stitched
on their hearts, no hurricane

or skyscraper shall stop them
spring after spring, damn it all—

They don’t sing for you!
They sing for themselves!