BALL
PARK POEM
Copyright Marc Kelly
Smith 1995
I'm sitting on a fire hydrant half way between
my forty-fifth and forty-sixth season enhancing my tan
while I wait for my pals to arrive with the tickets.
And a street vendor, leaning against a blond
brick wall fifty feet beyond
the centerfield fence, cries
“Peanuts!”
Sounding somewhat like a cricket because
the squall he makes is louder than
his body should allow.
“Peanuts!”
Three cops sitting sidesaddle on a blue
horse, side arms bulging out
conspicuously, adjust their doughnut bellies as they chit
chat takin' it easy on their fair weather patrol.
“Peanuts!”
Ten Wichita Kansas corn fed bullheads plug
up the intersection hunting for
Gate F. The cop nearest the traffic jam reluctantly does
his duty with a groaning
eyeball roll.
“Down there, sir. Gate F is down there
“Peanuts!”
People plash by in streams of placid pastels. Pops and
his buzz head kids.
Wendy and hers. Bertha and what could be children, but
what may be baby
hippopotami tuggin' at their mama as they lumber across
the street
linked together hand to hand -- the last one dragging
an antique catcher's
mitt.
From the top of the plug I shoot my scanner out into
the loveliness of lots
and lots of ladies, dolls, dames. Over forty me can't
help being a pig
sometimes, especially at the ballpark. Hell, when I'm
out here I'm like a
WGN cameramen zoomin' in on
Some bad habits are hard to kick.
Anyway, I spot peroxide blond wearing a pink halter-top,
eating a polish
sausage at the beer stand across the street, making lipstick
autographs on
the bun. “Peanuts!” I fantasize that she's
signing it for me.
(Something tries to
invade my daydream.)
“I said, d'ya got tickets?”
“Hey! I'm talkin' to you!”
“All you got to say is yes or no.
You people.
You people and your looks.”
It's a hawk, a hustler, a young man scalping a fist of
fake tickets. He's
tough, muscular, feral -- Red Dog dago tee. His eyes peg
me reactively. I
feel my own opaque glare matching up to his. For a second
we stare coldly
into each other eyes.
“All I asked you was if you had
tickets.
And if you do, just say no thank you.
Save me the hard guy look."
“Peanuts!”
“You people.
When are you people
Ever gonna stop
Lookin' down at us?”
“Peanuts!”
“You don't own this
street.”
“Peanuts!”
“And you don't own
me.”
“Peanuts!”
“And if you don't have the guts
To say what you're thinkin',
Then don't parade around
As if you got the guts to do anything else.”
“Peanuts!”
“You people.”
Down the block and across the street Big Mama leans over
the porch rail and
hollers “Ramon!” “Ramon!”
who runs up to the cricket on the corner
holdin' out a handful of money cryin':
“Peanuts! Peanuts!
I want some peanuts!”
“You got 'em little buddy. They’re all
yours. Take 'em home. Take ‘em home and enjoy yourself.
Enjoy eating your
PEANUTS!”
