The New York Yankees

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​She pulled up in her black Jetta
the clutch choking on old news. 
She stepped out letting the drivers-side 
door badger passing traffic. 
She lit a cigarette and parked herself 
on the trunk, which dipped even under the girl’s 98 pounds.
She wet her thumb and smeared bird shit 
into a palette circle on the pollen scented rear glass.
She laid back tan-prone, her midnight hair
naked on the roof in midday rays.
She sun-slept as I walked up while lighting,
our smokes in a palaver with idle exhaust fumes.
She popped the trunk exposing her cache 
of car-wash materials spread out like a yard sale gallery. 
She sprayed the tinted windows one by one
till they sparkled with just-off-the-lot newness.
She put on everyone’s favorite song but mine
and the radio winked at me with static reverb. 
She took off her t-shirt baring a navy blue 
sports bra that matched the Jetta’s better-days outerwear. 
She found her ex’s New York Yankees hat
under the front seat and didn’t mind putting it on.
She wore the hat backwards like an adolescent 
but soaped the tires like a college cheerleader. 
She giggled as I splashed half-car/half-her
with the just filled rub down bucket water. 
She took off running till I scooped her up
and threw her in the backseat, our eyes signing contracts.
She wound up on the mound in perfect form.  
I scored in the bottom of the ninth, taking to the field, 
her hat thrown off in victory.

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