Town Field

Poetry

Gianna Gucciardo

 Kind of electric. Eclectic.

Hectic. Firecracker in the

Town field on the 4th of July.

Eyes lighting up blue, red, gold,

Ears becoming more sensitive

Each time they meet. The sparks

Leave goosebumps, booms rattling lungs.

Foggy horizon gives mystery

When it’s just an empty field.

A cold empty field with nothing

To give. No benefit to anything or anyone except

Town baseball for six months, and the 4th of July which always

Leaves the field dirty, half dead, forgotten.

Every once in awhile, couples cozy up.

Blankets rustle on the dead grass, giggles

Fill the air around them. No projection in

This empty field. No affection just jarring

Lust and twinkling stars that tell their own story.

It has its own seasons, baseball, summer and sex.

Maybe a struggling father goes in the dead of winter,

Shooting off bottle rockets, his kids in their mothers

Custody. Sometimes he lays down and cries,

Until a couple comes along with a blanket and desire.