poem dedicated to someone I ain't met yet

I want to take you to a ball game,
where we’d be on the edge of our seats,
screaming, hot, and nestled in the crowd.
It’s here you might fall in love with me, too—

When I tell you I could be a WNBA referee,
I’d like you to be captivated by the fact
that it only takes a high school diploma
and passing a test to be on the court.

It would be nice if you believed me,
even if I’m not entirely sure I could.
Naturally, you’d know this isn’t an aspiration,
but a dedication, like how I don’t need to be
a professional chef to cook and nourish you.

Just as there are men on the court
whose sole job is to mop up sweet sweat
dripping from bouncing ponytails,
without getting in the way or interrupting,
I want to live to serve and adore you.

I would, too, sprint or crawl to clean up
whatever falls from you so you don’t slip,
while staying out of your way, letting you be the star.
It would be nice if you appreciated me, too—

but that’s not that necessary.