Softball Team at the Ferry Terminal after Provincials

Their uniforms are dusty and their feet stink
but they don’t want to change, not yet. Still giddy
their die-cast medals glint in the sun
as they strut the parking lot with pack strength,
cleats thrumming the asphalt. They all have ponytails,
they know that people are watching. Their fathers
pace the rows of hot cars, check coolers, call to each other
in loud voices. They can recount every hit, every missed catch.
So happy to drive, fetch ice, buy food, be needed.
When the girls get home, they’ll shower for hours
retreat to their rooms. Next season, they might not sign up again.
Their cleats will still fit, but they’ll be different.