On The Way Into the Ballpark

I always get lost on the way into the ballpark,

Somewhere between the gravel and the saplings

and the stand that sells food for my heart

(Which, in fact, is a ticket to a baseball game).

At least, I get lost in the relative sense–

Is the car right or left of here? Could a foul ball hit it?

I do, of course, always find my way back again,

and I know where I am in the absolute sense–where I belong.

In that sense, it's anyplace else that I am lost.