The Outfield

 

I stood in the outfield, an away game,

the school in front of me, redbrick, imposing,

no nonsense, like mine. More trees here,

more shade, more birds, grass here and there.

My schoolyard was concrete,

hard on knees and spirit. Similar neighborhood,

Chicago bungalows, pale brick apartments,

German Shepherds behind wire coil.

My neighborhood but not. A simple truth, obvious.

But it hit me hard. I looked up at a different piece of sky,

a different slant of universe not mine. Ten years later

maybe I’d call it an Existential Moment, one’s place

in the stars. Maybe a ball landed at my feet.

Maybe not. I felt woozy, like reading too late

under the covers. I was sorry to get back on the bus.