A coal train will derail by the little league field then            

men fly in, yellow jackets with yellow tape. 

They’ll leave, we’ll hit grounders, make up stories                      

about a kid who will shoot himself in the dugout.      

John Lennon is going to die. I won’t get picked for All-Stars.      

Matt will get a Boa Constrictor, name it Piedmont

and put his hand up Kelly B’s shirt, describe

her nipple like a spectacular song. From that point on,

she’s going to look older. I won’t be playing baseball again,

start smoking pot, cut the sleeves off my jean jacket.                 

I’m going to make out with Matt’s sister                                               

in the backseat of her car. Ghosts won’t watch,

act like all of this is true, but no one will know                   

for sure. Steely Dan on cassette, the blue eyeshadow,

the freedom, root beer lip gloss, the love, and the revolt.

I wouldn’t have much to say after that, but walking home

by the overturned train, I will sing.