Riding the wave
New prose poem. From the wandering mind of a casual baseball fan. Seattle, Mariners vs. Red Sox, 7/31/23.
Waves
They do not do the wave in the press box, I notice, as my arms float up in supplication to the baseball gods with dominion over beers, brats, bats, and, during summer, my beloveds. I wonder, would it be a welcome problem, wavelessness? Should we celebrate or mourn when ambition and opportunity converge, but dampen delight? Sometimes, I think, I would like to wave less. It might feel nice to have purpose glue me to my seat for a while. Maybe I envy these important people, if I’m being honest. And yet. To be so close to collective joy, yet sealed in a box where exuberance can only lap the glass? Heartbreaking. Is this our choice, then? It feels like drowning . . . until another swell rises and falls on my side of the stadium, and I with it. The taste of mustard cuts through the unease, and my gaze shifts to a fat gull hovering alone in the outfield. Is it lost in this sea, or just cruising for peanuts? I want to know, which am I? A different kind of wave knocks me over now; a knowing. This patchwork family of flotsam and jetsam and shorebirds and inscrutable, ineffable mariners is all we have today, here. Peace, cousin gull, and love to you, brothers and sisters who don’t wave. We are not so different, are we? The symmetry shimmers like water, I decide, and I ride the tide again.
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