by Leah Mueller
Cluster of bodies, soap
bubbles at a Cubs game:
1983, our bicycles shackled
to poles outside, entwined in
a metal snare. To saw through
tempered steel would
give thieves the pick of several.
We smuggled imported
beer in white bottles, eight
bucks a pack, and salads
in sturdy plastic containers
from the Bread Shop.
Bleacher seats three dollars,
nicknamed the “Animal Section.”
No one at the entry gate
ever checked for weapons.
We were good to go, unless
bottles protruded from the
sides of our backpacks,
or we spilled marijuana
on the sidewalk by mistake
as we entered Wrigley Field.
A friend once said,
“If you were one of the lucky
people who got to change
the scoreboard by hand, you’d
be so fucking cool by default.”
We drank beer, passed
joints, ate salads, and
when the game was over,
we took our trash home
and disposed of it properly.
We were good citizens.
No one patted our thighs,
thrust their hands up our shirts,
groped under the waistbands of
our shorts, searching for explosives.
No one checked our health records
for evidence of compliance.
It was just a goddamned Cubs game,
a few 23-year-old kids,
and a summer that would end
like all the others after.
Leah Mueller is the author of ten prose and poetry books. Her new book, The Destruction of Angels (Anxiety Press) was published in October 2022. She is a 2023 nominee for both Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her flash piece, “Land of Eternal Thirst” appears in the 2022 edition of Sonder Press’ “Best Small Fictions” anthology. www.leahmueller.org
