Dodgeball Poem by Maya Stein

I am thinking about a poem, which words to use for how the afternoon
is spread out like a picnic blanket, fall coaxing a blush from the trees,
the sun glowing photogenically across that pond in the park
where the geese are collaborating on a meal. The instinct to capture
keeps metastasizing. Last night, while the party partied on, I sat on
stiff cushions and chased wild thoughts with a borrowed pen. Sometimes
I don’t know how to stay afloat in my own life’s scenes, diving directly
to some deep end where I flounder for meaning. Even now,
I hear the neighbor kids in the throes of a game of dodgeball and a metaphor
blooms. And yet, that ball. Those dirty hands. Hard pavement. I want to play.