In America, it’s shocking
to want your Coke without ice.
In America, it’s questionable
to admit you don’t really care for baseball that much.
In America, it raises eyebrows
to ride public transit if you have a perfectly good car.
In America, people secretly smirk
if you’re into poetry.
In America, people like you
if you are rich, or if you are beautiful.
In America, fathers drive our families
to enormous stadiums
and empty our savings accounts
to buy ice-cold beverages
and watch tall, beautiful young men
play a game
that made us cry
when we were eight years old
because we struck out with a man on third
and we couldn’t hit the cutoff man
and we got caught stealing second
and afterward we sat on the curb
waiting for our ride,
until long after sunset
You might think that’s why
I drink my beer at room temperature,
but really I’m just too lazy
to put more in the fridge.
Poetry Month 2018
I’ve resolved a few times to write a poem a day during the month of April, and I actually succeeded once. I’m again trying it out. No idea what each day will bring. Some light verse, some politics, some “oh shit I didn’t write anything today” haikus. If you read one and feel moved to comment, please do. If you want to share your poetry, please share!
PS: Today’s poem prompt was provided by my warm beer called Cold Snap, and last night’s A’s game