They’re tearing down the baseball diamond,
the one down in the part of town
that used to be the bruise on our apple
but now is clean and upscale and new.
They’re tearing it down, and all I can think about
is all that dirt.
How silly it is to be thinking about that dirt,
and all the feet that touched it,
bare or covered,
and the things that spilled into it,
like the last sip of a sports drink
or ice cold water from a tipped bottle
or blood from a nose or unsuspecting limb
that happened to be occupying
the wrong place at the wrong time.
Did the dirt clump up under all the lost sweat,
and how many tears like hot bullets hit the
rust-colored ground, be it on the field or off,
where six generations of our neighbors
met and lost their first loves,
searched for missing pets,
or wished the sunny afternoon away
with the sweet bite of a cold lemonade.
Does the ground remember? Does anyone?
When the cement is poured,
and the carpet is laid down,
how much blood and how many tears
will hit that dirt again? Or will it just be buried?
I’m headed over there tonight
I don’t know what I’ll find there
but I’m sure I’ll find something.
Maybe just piles of dirt, and a rock to throw
into the field in the distance
to land on the green, green grass
and roll for some time
before coming to a stop
at the foot of a bulldozer.