Future Perfect Poem by Dianne Feaver

Ten floors up in a crowded elevator
all eyes averted from the rude behaviour
of the kid throwing spitballs
at everyone in the mirror.

Ten more floors every eye a glare
not one man spoke, nor one woman dare
catch the interest of a naughty boy
hurling gobwash through the air.

Ten floors more to the boy's waiting mother
who only sees her boy grinning like a Cheshire
and as the doors slide shut I hear a voice behind me say
'I think, someday, he will be a baseball player.'