The Miners, the Minors, Carbondale, Illinois

I come from a no-team town to see the Miners play,

fall down drunk in the stands with you, obnoxious

off the train from Chicago

in your Pittsburgh stovepipe,

Expos jersey, beard shaved to handlebars

for a bygone day in downstate minors country.

Spilling, lisping, rubbing up

against you, admiring

sinew-ripping throws, welp, he’s going nowhere

fast like that. I lament

poor Miners, poor minors, poor Carbondale

a literal coal field, spent.

Confessions & taunts & kisses & curses, wise cracks

of bats & beer cans, getting backward looks

he’s probably that player’s grandpa, poor grandpas, you know

I don’t like baseball

fans, but I’m a fan of baseball

men. You get a piece

of the action when a foul ball pops

me, inattentive

yet rapt, as I get

drunk & near-sighted in the sun.

Edie Meade is a writer, visual artist, and mother of four boys in Huntington, West Virginia. She is passionate about literacy and collects books like they’re going out of style. She has published two collections of poetry, Every Day Is A Love Letter, and Birth & Other Stages of Death. Say hi on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/.

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