Memorial, #72

Tear up the benches, tear down
the bleachers, bulldoze the old
stadium for something brand
spanking new, name the ballpark
for the bidder ranked highest
on NASDAQ; the stock market
for the next hundred years. Fine
by me. I will still frequent
the cheap seats, not a care
for which market superchain
multinational vendor
paid for his name hung in lights.

Honestly, let’s break this down.
If some wealthy white man, old
and crusty, can stamp his brand
on these walls, then must I park
my backside in the highest
seats, watch specks play the market
as well as the field (fine
play no longer a frequent
event or everyday care).
I want to, without a chain
of twenties flung to vendors
working late beneath the lights?

And when attendance is down,
couldn’t I shuffle these old
bones down a couple rows, brand
my butt with one letter, park
cheeks lower than the highest
level? I’ll quit the market
for foul balls, fine.
The home runs never frequent
the upper-decks, so who cares.
But by law and class I’m chained
to these nosebleed seats vendors
neglect. The air here is light.

Baseball, like the breaking down
of society to old
and young, wealthy and poor, brand
name and generic, who parks
where, what’s the absolute highest
price we can charge in this market.
Nothing in Baseball is fine.
I calculate soon frequent
foul balls will be took care
of by some sort of steel chain
or string or ferro magnet
sucking balls into the lights.

Sold on your mile hike down
to the exit, dirty old
balls fifty bucks a pop, brand
name of corporate ballpark
etched on. Here in the highest
seats, what are they marketing,
no toy prizes inside. Fine.
Hotdogs, salt nachos, frequent
calls for beer (peel twenties). Who cares
to come live when you can chain
yourself to TV, vendor
free, and 50 cent Bud Lights.

Once a lifetime I’ll bring down
the family, my young kid, old
dad. For both the game is brand
new, unreal, the ballpark
designed for profit, highest
margins, constant marketing.
My kid tugs my sleeve, “Yes, fine.
forget the game, let’s frequent
the team store.” He doesn’t care
about the score. And dad, chained
to his seat, looks past vendors.
Up, up, gone. Into the lights.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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