“It smells like a gym in here,”
my mother used to say. Jonathan
would laugh, and I
would wind up and throw
another pitch
in the living room,
Nerf ball zooming
toward the closet door,
Jon standing, crouched,
ready to pummel a line drive;
both of us drip
another drop of sweat, and mom
sniffs in loving disapproval
from the kitchen.
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