Variations on a Theme by Ty Cobb
A common fly discovers a portal. In through the roadkill’s mouth, out through the empty beer cup in the stadium’s bathroom stall. Or so the fly tells it. I believe the sincerity in his red eyes. But he needs to be certain, has to be sure, he says. And so with a gentle nod and a meaty grin he is sucked back into the cup like a vacuum, the red plastic cylinder spinning on the cement floor. It makes a funny kind of sense. The body being poured in and out of vessels, some cheap, others kingly. I won’t complain. I order hot dogs with yellow mustard and onions. Sip Pilsner. Yell at pop flies and the stains on my shirt. For those of you watching at home, may I present thousands of people rippling like a man-made lake. Almost endless, lapping.
a pink home run