The Boys

the sun beats down on my crossed arms

I watch the kids two rows down

gulp from half-empty Mountain Dew bottles

hot dog backwash sloshing as they cheer

hold their gloved hands up up for the foul ball

and the men a few seats to the right

who probably have names like Ricky or Hank

and drink beer in place of water blow smoke

from twice lit cigarettes and puffed out chests

like territorial primates that skipped work

to knock one of the kids onto concrete

and snatch the ball from underneath them

and all I can wonder is Where are their mommas?

and feel the urge to jump up and snatch the man

who looks like a Ricky up by his collar but instead

I watch the kid sip from his Mountain Dew bottle

a moment of silence and Ricky and Hank

are scratching their balls and throwing shit

and I ask myself Do they even realize it?

I listen to the folks beside me sing along

to “Sweet Caroline” and watch the boys take

a seat and oh how I fucking hate that song

Lindsey Heatherly is a Pushcart nominated poet and writer from Upstate South Carolina. She works as a pharmacy technician at a psychiatric facilityWriting is her second love, her daughter being her first. Her work can be found in various online and print journals, such as Pithead Chapel, Emerge Journal, Red Fez, SVJ, Versification, Trampset and others. Find her on Twitter @rydanmardsey

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