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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