Voices on the Wind Voices on Relaxation
Ballplayer by Janet Barry Summer drones locust lethargy In the pub a group of three consume fish and chips, beer. Mouths work up and down, forks spear fries and specks of batter. T-shirts. Tattoos. The younger man has his cap on backwards, the woman sits close as a bee comes in the open door. Yellow jacket. They seldom sting, just hover around your food like you put it out for them. Abdomens working some pulsing ritual over the tartar sauce. A ball game on the screen. The older man works at a conversation. Flicks at a fly. In the corner a man in military. His girl leaning forward to make a point. She has a cocktail, a cool shade of pink embraced in her right hand. Left hand touches his. Center table. On the screen a ballplayer spits. White moth descends to green. I wonder about the need to spit. So exaggerated on a ball field. So emulated by the young. The guy in military leaves alone. The backwards cap guy leaves alone. His black T-shirt with a skull and a Harley logo on it. The women finish their drinks. I think I will stay here all day. Lingering over a beer. Sniffing the August scent. Wondering what it was they had to talk about, even as they released their empty plates to the server, wandered out into the brilliant sun, made space on the inside for changes. A new couple settles at the bar. The locusts go quiet in the afternoon heat.