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 facility. Writing 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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