The Empty
From the overhang of a blue metal door
in the corner of concrete,
I huddle, staring at the swell of rain—
drops blip from the building
and dull tree branches
into mud-grass puddles.
The school has always been dark inside
since it shut in 2008,
no more tracing my fingers along
the bumpy concrete walls and
pretending to fly down a ramp
in the main hallway.
Now the dark is outside, too,
the barren field riddled with shadows:
running barefoot from duties,
pushing up nose-less snowmen,
racing back to the blue metal door
when the bell rang.
I can’t remember what it sounded like.
An old man walks on to the soaking field. He stops.
He tests his knees as though about to jump or dash.
He stares at the field’s emptiness,
watches as though he sees something more
than rain and wet and dull earth.
He stands forever, motionless, red cap bright
and dripping,
perhaps watching shadows of his own,
perhaps entranced by the world
of rain and solemn sky.
He smiles.