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A Seattle Mariners Poem

Jason O. Watson

There are places on freeways
and highways where cars can cut
in line. Most don't.

Most merge slowly, locate and wait
for their place in line, wait
their turn, are reasonable.

Others swerve, speed ahead,
their mufflers blaze and their tires
burn and their brakes scream. They

force their way in. These cars are
fucking monsters. I want to murder
the people inside of them. I want

to run them down, speed ahead, slam
on my brakes and then strangle them
in their seats. I want to pour

all my problems into their mouths
and watch them choke and burst and break.
I want justice to fill their throats.

Somewhere,

there is a man giving medicine
to his daughter. It tastes terrible
and she won't swallow.

He spoons it into her mouth and holds
her nose and she cries and he worries
that she'll never trust him again.

Maybe he lives in Seattle and maybe
he's a Mariners fan and maybe he watches
them play that night and they lose.

Maybe he drives to work the next day,
merges, and waits patient
for his place in line.