American Games

On the train, he reads the paper glancing at the headline

about the nineteen year old boy who brought

a city to its knees until they found him

bloody

hiding in a boat.

And then American won again, the way we always promise

we will win.

 

He reads parts of the article aloud

whistling low and long

at the hours that it took to find

this nineteen year old boy.

 

Boy oh boy, he says,

and whistles again.

Boy oh boy. What a country.

 

and then flips to the back

Lots of sports on tonight, he says.

Yes indeedy.

Lots of good ballgames

good old american games.

 

Thank God, eh? He says to no one.

Thank God.

By Ally Malinenko

I live in Brooklyn which is good except when it’s not which is horrid. I’ve been writing for awhile, and have some stuff published and some stuff not. I don’t like when people refer to pets as their children and I can’t resist a handful of cheez-its when offered. I have a burning desire to go to Antarctica, specifically to the South Pole so I can see where Robert Falcon Scott died. I like to read books. I like to write stories and poems. I even wrote some novels. You can read them.

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