After Lunch
Patrick Miller
Droves of glistening bodies move
across the lawn, close enough that I can see
sweat in gradient on their shirts.
The players place their hands on their hips and
catch their breath with a heavy head.
An insect is on the table
beside me.
It is moving its antennas,
lifting one while setting the other down
slowly.
Lifting and setting as it
watches me from the table.
I hear shouts from the field.
I sit and smoke a cigarette, trying not
to think of violence.
I inhale, and I try not
to think of broken bodies,
and of the decision she has made.
A player catches the disk,
he pauses and finds a teammate.
It is thrown too hard and
the players collide and push
each other in pursuit.
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