splinters (an ode to Sammy Sosa)
a boy, barely ten, small for his age, reddish face with light hair, bright eyes muted by an oversized cap, one collar flap popped up, some numbness in his arm above the elbow, the last row of field level, an aisle seat, his father's suit neat and crisp, quips exchanged, the beer vendor in the next section, the boy clutching a scorecard, a stubby pencil, a ratty glove, holes borne through the palm, the boy's arm swollen now, expanding past the windbreaker, his father juggling beers, one finished, a pathetic rendition of the national anthem, businessmen scrambling to their seats, the boy and one collide, something spills, some screaming, ears redden, arm deaddening, and you - so alive, life-filled beyond fakery, sprinting in from the outfield, the boy's eyes, everything wide again, everything open, hopeful, trust me, you don't owe us a thing, but it makes our throats close to think you quit believing in yourself
splinters (an ode to Sammy Sosa)
a boy, barely ten, small for his age, reddish face with light hair, bright eyes muted by an oversized cap, one collar flap popped up, some numbness in his arm above the elbow, the last row of field level, an aisle seat, his father's suit neat and crisp, quips exchanged, the beer vendor in the next section, the boy clutching a scorecard, a stubby pencil, a ratty glove, holes borne through the palm, the boy's arm swollen now, expanding past the windbreaker, his father juggling beers, one finished, a pathetic rendition of the national anthem, businessmen scrambling to their seats, the boy and one collide, something spills, some screaming, ears redden, arm deaddening, and you - so alive, life-filled beyond fakery, sprinting in from the outfield, the boy's eyes, everything wide again, everything open, hopeful, trust me, you don't owe us a thing, but it makes our throats close to think you quit believing in yourself
a boy, barely ten, small for his age, reddish face with light hair, bright eyes muted by an oversized cap, one collar flap popped up, some numbness in his arm above the elbow, the last row of field level, an aisle seat, his father's suit neat and crisp, quips exchanged, the beer vendor in the next section, the boy clutching a scorecard, a stubby pencil, a ratty glove, holes borne through the palm, the boy's arm swollen now, expanding past the windbreaker, his father juggling beers, one finished, a pathetic rendition of the national anthem, businessmen scrambling to their seats, the boy and one collide, something spills, some screaming, ears redden, arm deaddening, and you - so alive, life-filled beyond fakery, sprinting in from the outfield, the boy's eyes, everything wide again, everything open, hopeful, trust me, you don't owe us a thing, but it makes our throats close to think you quit believing in yourself