Click here to listen to Alan Michael Parker read this poem.
emblazoned with a map of the New York City subways,
a novelty item complete with the violet
No. 7 line, the train that clatters out to Shea.
Too often in the ‘70s in the rain
I saw the Mets lose there,
among anonymous fans
under orange and blue umbrellas
or the occasional grocery bag.
There’s a woman I know now
whose son has died:
she should have the ball.
In the stadium this evening
the anonymous fans are hiding
under orange and blue umbrellas
or the occasional grocery bag,
and I can see her son
happy there, at last,
fidgety in the bleachers.
The lights light up the field
perfectly in the buggy, humid night—
it’s like being inside a pretty thought.
When the small, sodden crowd—
What would she do with the ball?
Whatever she wants,
whatever we do with anything.
