They come in red and blue and yellow rubber
so they can bounce between two people
or high into the air.
They come in the perfect size and shape
big enough to sit on,
small enough to fit into your glove.  

My boy took a running leap
at the exercise ball in the basement
and bounced head over heels,
or rather heels over head,
cracking a tooth or maybe
just his little boy pride.  

The gym teacher pumped them up
only half way full of air
so that he could get a better grip,
smashing them at each other
across the center line of the basketball court.  

They roll slow across the floor
of his grandma’s 19th century house.
They roll down the stairs to the basement
where, wedged between the water heater and paint cans,
there are too many spiders for my son to retrieve it.  

They roll off the back deck into the yard,
then down the hill and under the bushes.
They roll into the street when no one is looking
and I scold him not to follow.  

But the real problem with balls,
as ingenious as they are,  
winning home runs, kicked for a goal,
is when you set them down,
you can’t keep them.
It is their natural to roll.