Opening Day

Well-oiled frat boys unbridle their voices
An umpire's the target
Tonight's Anti-Christ
He has a bead on the pitch
but it can't match their blurry take
from section 118

A man jumps from a railing
charges in from left field
stopping play
He's no ball player
but the cheers are the same, anyway
He dodges security
kerosene in his veins
They bring him down in center field

A vendor sends a bag of peanuts airborne
missing the target

and instead
disturbing the graying hair of a middle aged woman
The bag's retrieved from the damp cement floor
money is passed fan to fan
the woman's hair is repaired,

Children are restless, the game won't move
like the action on their x-box
They fidget, beg for concession food
Dad placates with cash

The manager spits sunflower shells
batter cocks
pitcher fires

hickory hits like iron
cowhide careens
crowd erupts
base paths are run with a rhythm
game is played with a pulse
pushed by an invisible hand

The night is young
the crisp uniforms so handsome
the season is brand new
The win brings weightless joy
It will follow old men back home
Spilling into their dreams