The Dugout
They like it here
shaded from the sun,
drinking Gatorade
in the dugout among
the solitude
of brothers.
After one strikes
out
or misses a ball,
angry fathers climb
the gated fence
that separates
spectators
from players and
curse.
All night only the
male crickets chirp,
nocturnal and
cold-blooded,
they take on the
temperature
of their
surroundings.
They run the top of
one wing
along the teeth
at the bottom of the
other.
Their wings up and
open
like acoustical
sails, the sound restless
and unending.
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