Me and Bob, Joe and Marie We sit like schlubs in the bleacher seats. Joe. I should have married Joe. Mother knew best. We’d be in box seats; even better those luxury boxes, with the giant TVs appys and cocktails, elbows rubbed with the ball players. Instead I’m with Bob in the bleachers. It’s loud and it smells; sun baking my head beer spilled all over, by the fat drunk that leans on me. Chick that he’s with, stinking like beans and green onions. Mother was right. I’m hearing her voice now. “You could love a rich, same as a poor man.” But I missed the boat. I married Bob. Joe married Marie. Mom preferred Joe, but I sit here with Bob - like two schlubs in the bleacher seats, while Marie lives my best life. Tampons and Tanqueray “Lay down with dogs, you’ll wake up with puppies.” “That slut in 4C, knocked up, having twins.” “Ya gotta get in there, scrub like you mean it, or your house will stay filthy” Bernice of the lacquered up beehive, cracking her gum while opinning. And the gals on the bench, while the men went to work, living paycheck to paycheck, with the dream to move up from the projects to suburbs. South side of Queens, the ladies speak trash talk, tampons and Tanqueray, stuffed bras and stuffed cabbage making me wish, that I’d snuck out to Woodstock.