There I was, ready to pay for my hot dog
when the rain started. All the screaming fans
seemed to make less sense. Bringing her father
was a mistake. The park is a shrine, to me
and I know it now as I stand here with one
hand on the dog, one on the wallet, and the rain
not ceasing to begin. Her father is rotting placidly
in his hundred-dollar seat while I miss these last at-bats
for a hot god. God, why must it come between us
like the mustard and relish?
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