My father took us.
Three little girls.
People, noise, sunshine,
Four seats in the middle
Of a long row.
Players on the field. Real grass.
Venders in the aisles,
Trays slung from their shoulders
Like yoked oxen.
I didn’t see my father’s signal,
Just caught the motion of
Open cardboard boats
Each one holding a golden dog
In a golden bun
Four of them, bumping along
Handed person to person
To reach us.
My Dad at my elbow, his smile fading
As I looked down and announced,
“I don’t like mustard.”