Because he’s two and can’t, I tee up
the ball, déjà vuing to the worn net
in my father’s basement. When he demands
I don’t adjust his hands, he knows better.
He’s always known better but is just now
figuring out ways to say so. As though
he’s already grown, swinging through
the bunt sign, as though it’s really possible
to inherit muscle memory.

Dime Show Review