What Happens NextJ. David
The lilacs left me that year
and none of it mattered.
I’d get high before breakfast
and drink in the afternoons.
Jake moved to Pittsburgh
and would drive on weekends
to watch Cleveland baseball
from the bleachers with me.
We drank overpriced beer
and screamed the names
of players the teams had
traded or cut. It was only funny
because neither of us were bitter.
Teams paid players to be
replaceable, to pack their lives
into suitcases and trade states.
We watched, game after game,
collecting new names to shout
into the diamond. And in
the parking lot, after Jake had
started his long drive home,
I shout your name
at empty cars. One lights up,
drives off into the night.