THE GREAT SATAN
THE GREAT SATAN
Inside Dodger Stadium
on an average Wednesday evening
the spirit of global conquest
thrives
beneath the muted blades of a dying sun.
A patchworked sea of blue hats
and jerseys worn in admiration
of the ghosts of grown men
erupts
watching those same ghosts’ children
scurry back and forth
across long stretches of neat grass
heads high as
still other grown men yell
at them the way one would yell
at a murderer
or an accidentally discovered late-night ransacker of precious treasures,
so angry, with veins in the neck, and shaking fists
but also with more than a touch of jealousy
that they have come as spectators
with below average incomes
who will leave carrying novelty beer mugs
with swirling plastic lights encased in the bottom.
As a wealth of non-foods are consumed,
children are taught to hate
based on color and locality.
People are forced to kiss each other
in front of thousands of total strangers
on an oversized television screen,
folks are made to sing, gamble, wave their hands toward heaven
for fear of being singled out and strung up by the masses.
And just before the seventh inning stretch
someone I love falls asleep on my arm,
happy, I hope,
and dreaming
of things like this one
before this was something built to scale
and was as yet one man,
a thin branch,
and a stone
hit toward the end of a lot.