rhapsody in bleacher

the sousaphones were platters of blat
you can’t spend a dollar in hell, no matter what color your fishnets glow
dust and popcorn mix surprisingly well in the nostrils
the leafbuds poked from twigs with a taste of gin
he looked around with a conspicuous nonchalance
(much like Barry Bonds might glance in Iowa)
and he sat behind me,
his leather pants making cricket sounds against the bleachers
suddenly, popcorn smells out of place
but the fertilizer-smell of the leather pulls it back to its niche
and I can taste salt in comfort again
the old lady in the front wonders,
“why can’t team mascots be fruit?”
the Fighting Pomegranates?
the Tangerine Tide?
my silly thoughts cause the crowd to stand and do the Wave
the man in leather breathes warm on my neck
we all turn sharply when, “They can’t win in a goose feather!!”
all faces point
and the man with white hair lets the veins in his neck protest back
the pink jello of my musings blend elaborately with stadium blue
even concrete walls giggle in anticipation
the man in cowhide tries not to giggle back to them
then turns to see Charles’ bemused eyebrows
he will remember my red lipstick
he will not, however, make change
otium cum dignitate
I’ll leave when the sky leans back and puts on slippers
but for now, I’ll just will the crowd to make the Wave again