Bookstore Poem #400. Saturdays at the stadium

Remembering one of the old autumn rituals earlier today…

The stadium used to have giant concrete
concourses spiralling upwards
like corkscrew threads

They were perfect for throwing
the football around at halftime
and peering out
over the edge at the lake
with the mountain in the distance

The other side of the field
had bleachers without cover
guaranteeing either sunburn
(on a sunny day)
or a sea of tarps and umbrellas
(in a downpour)

Our side was covered
and therefore safe—unless it was windy

I was good
for four hot dogs per game
(later with coffee)

For him, it was coffee before
and coffee at the half
and maybe mid-quarter
when it was cold

I learned patience
people surfing
and to never trust Boy Scouts

‘Trust me—I used to be one’, he said

I learned
that some rituals
die out from under-use
and that something else
doesn’t always come around
to replace them

(14 October 2018)

 


 

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