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An army of vendors
roams the stands -
red shirts,
narrow paper caps,
aprons for money -
lugging trays of waxy cups of soda
or tubs of popcorn.
Their eyes -
the eyes of spies -
scan the fans
looking for a sign of recognition,
answer their mates as if in code:
Iiiiiiice cream!
Getcher peanuts!
Iiiiiiice cream!
Getcher peanuts!
ignoring the battle
being waged
on the field of flawless green.
