Batting Lessons
We lost the game again. My uniform smells
Like sweat and summer humid.
Dad buys me a hot dog at Frankie's.
"You're pulling your head out on inside pitches."
"I know."
"If you know, then stop doing it."
The hot dog is a foot long.
Dad puts onions and hot relish on his.
Just ketchup on mine.
My second grade teacher works the summers at Frankie's,
And even though I'm almost in high school now,
It still feels strange to see her there.
Wrong somehow.
Teachers need second jobs?
It's hot and I can't stop sweating.
We lean on Dad's car and look across the street
At the used car lot. A boy who looks tough just
Cut through the lot, even though it's gated off
At the front.
I don't like him.
He looks like dishonesty in the back of the classroom.
Near the pencil sharpener. The boy talking.
The girl flirting. Dishonesty.
He crosses the road.
I'm wearing a baseball uniform.
His jeans have holes in the knees.
How come he's not sweating? It's so hot!
"Looks like you," Dad says as he takes a bite
Out of his hot dog.
So he does.
"Could be your twin," he says, and now I get it
But wish I didn't have to say anything back.
"Does not," I say.
He does.
Dad shrugs. "Try lining up your knuckles when
You hold the bat."
The boy walks around the side of the building
And disappears and I know that until I sit near
The pencil sharpener, at least for the
Time being,
I will line up my knuckles when I hold the bat.
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