From a barstool I watched the Yankees, 
amber bottles and our faces reflected in the mirror.
So many flickering screens around us—all on mute.

Our slugger let pitches go by. We waited.
The eighth inning against our long-time rival.  
Bases loaded; he kept adjusting his gloves.

Screen to my left a basketball popped 
off the rim, long arms whacked.
Our screen cut to a commercial for pest control—

The bartender turned his back to the bar, 
rag in hand, pressed his ear to a small tv.
I watched what he watched— 

Lights snaked a blackened street… Men, 
hundreds of men, fire 
wreathing their heads. Shields they carried, and flags—

though I couldn’t make out what country.  
Skinheads—Oh! American heads— 
three of them beating the hell out of some guy.

Next morning on my newsfeed, more footage.
A Dodge Challenger had roared
into the pumping heart of the crowd.

I must have watched it five times. 
The Challenger jerked back like a cocked fist
and then it struck. The driver

was saying that he got riled.
But I’d seen a whole stadium agitate, 
neck chords strained, “Just hit it, would ya?”

The ball, tapped, our Yank jogged 
to first, runners advanced. I was glued to the slow-mo
cam—and didn’t I catch the fastball slam the mitt.