For Sale: Blubber

At Yankees Stadium, I stand in
row twelve with Anthony and Tim.
It’s then that I first see it. The pitcher

arcs the ball to the catcher. As its seams
catch the light, it glows like a slice
of freshly carved blubber. A late swing.

Strike one. The next pitch is a curveball,
spit slipping off the curves. The wooden
bat smacks the bottom hard, a clang

like dropped metal tools, the ones
I used to peel off the skin. Foul ball.
Strike two. The pitcher readies himself.

Leans forward. Behind his back, hands
massage the ball, no bigger than an orca’s
eye. Whips it towards the catcher.

The swing is fast. His hips twisting
into place. I wonder if the wad
of hundreds in my right pocket weighs

the same as a jockstrap. Probably more.
It’s a home run. A goner. Some lucky,
middle-aged, dad-bod dad catches

it, takes a selfie with his son. About
to post it on Facebook. The team,
the crowd cheers as number seven

rounds the bases, but all I hear
is the wail of a daughterless
mother crying into the waves.

Daniel Boyko is a writer from New Jersey. His work appears or is forthcoming in SOFTBLOW, Nanoism, Eunoia Review, and The Aurora Journal, among others. He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Polyphony Lit. Wherever his dog is, he can’t be far behind.