Sunday

once outside a ballpark

a boy knocked me out cold.

i was very well drunk and

when i found my legs i staggered

forward and pleaded with the boy’s

father for some sort

of recompense.

it was a cheap shot,

but he was just a boy.

‘look at my goddamn lip!' i yelled.

i expected the father

to admonish his son

or offer an apology

but he didn’t even turn around.

he looked like a boxer's trainer,

bent over, rubbing the fighter's

biceps and shoulders,

quietly repeating some mantra

to prepare for the next round.

they had

forgotten about me.

there were fireworks 
above.

i stood

in the middle of all the strolling

people, tasting blood

and thinking of what to do.

i knew i could take the father.

his back was turned.

and the son would break

when he saw his father hit the sidewalk.

i thought about this,

and i still do,

but by the time

i made up my mind

i’d lost them on the train platform.