Homecoming

The kid's bus unloaded

at the Away Team's arena

before my Union contract's

dismissal time allowed

for an expedient commute

up the Parkway.

I tried like hell

to beat the clock

as always, boxing out

those attempted right-lane passers

with a deathgrip at seven

on my steering wheel

my right hand on the horn

and this grin that only

those with nothing left to lose

would know.

I'd never been to my city's high school

but a parking lot's a parking lot.

Walking the fence 

as those boys kicked their ball

yielded nothing more or less

than my day of pulling wrenches.

Swearing I saw him

across the field, in the tented dugout

I trekked across from the bleachers

and stood feet from where

he sat with his clipboard

hoping he'd stand

and see me at the chain links.

That didn't happen.

I refrained from calling

his name through the canvas

for fear of embarrassing

a man in the making.

My drive home

shortly thereafter

left me with two questions

neither of which

I'll ask here and now: