Bottle Capped Sunday
After Dad's Sunday softball games,
we kids would run the bases.
Then we'd skip over to the River Inn Tavern.
Players would gather in small sweaty clumps.
Guzzling life
Playing pool
Devouring cold cuts.
Rehashing the scent of the game
The dirt on their uniforms,
the state of a blue-collared art.
I collected bottle caps in those days.
Had a secret agreement with "Chops."
The coach and tavern owner.
Every time the cash register rang.
The richer he and I became.
Big George was the first baseman.
Power hitter and power drinker.
He was by far the biggest contributor to my collection.
My favorite bottle cap was a Genesse Cream Ale.
It was a pretty pale green.
Reminded me of a quiet mountain lake.
Or the eyes of the little blonde just down the lane.
Many bottle caps later we would leave the River Inn Tavern.
Dad's heart brimming with dirt and diamond.
My pockets jingling with tiny mountain lakes.
Both of us stinking of beer and bargain cigarettes.
That was a million Sundays ago,
Chops, Big George, and my bottle cap collection are gone.
My father is on deck.
Don't know what ever became of the little blonde.
Down the lane.
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