SOONER STORY

A man in a sea of red,

attends a sports game,

wears blue to stand out,

watches the aisle

with a bratwurst in one hand,

a beer in the other.

He eats slowly, unconcerned

with the verbal bashing

by the fan club.  Brown mustard

paints his cheek to the left

of his mouth, out of reach

of his tongue.

He checks the aisle again,

scans up to the top,

to the platform with 

concession stands

and rest rooms.  He shifts

his weight from left

to right foot.

Each time he scans the aisle

he sees a hundred faces:

mostly white, but some native,

some black, but none

of the people trickling to seats

held in their families for years

wears her face, the face

that pertains to the smile

that lights his eyes.

She must still be in the ladies room,

maybe, taking time to smoke.

The amount of time of her non-return

is at the cusp of worry.  Perhaps

she fell in, he jokes to himself.

Perhaps nothing happened

and too many headlines read

conditioned him to worry.

I imagine her face, imagine her

a her and not a he, not a reserve buddy

recently returned from Iraq.  I notice

his mind is not on the game, nor does he

react and view the field or the video

when the crowd rises and cheers

on a big play.

Will I spot her before he does?

Does she wear blue to match?

Why does his story shift my attention

away from the game?

My mind pictures her return

with a beer and peanuts in hand

and how she sets them down

and pulls a napkin from where 

she tucked them in her belt,

then dabs the mustard

off his cheek before standing

on tip-toes to kiss him. 

But she does not return.

And, come to think of it,

she was never there with him.

Not from the time I took my seat.

Not at anytime I glanced over

to observe his eye-catching blue 

in a sea of red.

She may be tied up in traffic.

Maybe, her plane was delayed

by wind sheer over Texas.

Maybe, she planned this outing

to repair their failing relationship

but got cold feet in the parking lot.

KNIFE HELD TO A BELIEF

They use to drowned

their unwanted children, here;

toss them into the river

from this spot on the bridge,

then walk away relieved.

The grey-brown waters

slide leaves under the old stone,

the current lifts and moves

a bloated dead fish downstream,

the grind of traffic passes

on the north side, the south side.

How many Einsteins ...?

How many Van Goghs ...?

Delphi paces a little 

on the centuries old masonry, 

intuits this to be the place where humanity

refused to apologize for being hungry,

watches her idea of good and evil 

crumble, dust dull in the street light;

she ponders the falling snowflakes’ sparkle

just before the river absorbs them.