It’s hard to believe there are makeshift walls
being erected on my son’s old soccer field—
Stretchers and gurneys wheeled, triage at the goal post
where he kicked his first goal as a freshman. Slumbering drones
are hovering over the gymnasium. The coughing sick await
their turn, in the same exact place, hand over hearts, we used to
cheer in the stands. It’s hard to believe nurses and doctors have
replaced teachers. In the blue sky, a flagpole deploys a tangled mast of stars.
All the books that taught the myths of history, my son will need
to unlearn. A Confederate General once fought a battle
just six blocks from here. The Southern gentry is getting smaller
like a candy sucked on to find the darkest center. Today, a couple’s love
of fifty years will be intubated, one will survive. The infirmed lining up
on the green field, where a stripe-knickered coach whistled a long foul.
I never believed my deft bird would need so little, leave the nest.
At this moment, armies of worms are surgically moving the dirt
from the turf—to make room. We always knew we were going to die,
but we just didn’t believe it, thought we could jaywalk all day long.
