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Sestina #5: Evening
The rush hour traffic is backed up at the light.
A line of grumbling cars stretches past the rusty outfield fence
to the school's second driveway. A Canada goose flies
low, headed for the reedy river to wash dust
from its feathers. Its wings beat still air. A black eye catches
the angled sun, glowing red. On the field, a coach hits
grounders across overgrown grass. She grunts as she hits.
When her players make backhanded stops, her eyes light
up. The right fielder runs in, screams as her foot catches
in a deep hole. She rolls to the ground, sees two joggers watching through the
fence
as the coach rushes up, yelling for someone to find the trainer. She brushes dust
from her black shorts, squats beside the girl. Flies
buzz near overflowing trash barrels. The shortstop drops her glove and flies
by, headed for the school. The coach hits
the ground in frustration. She coughs as dust
rises from the parched field. The light
skin of the girl's ankle bruises before the shortstop passes the fence.
The right fielder squirms in pain. Her breath catches.
She knows she's done for the season, her last. The coach catches
hold of her hand, tries to calm her. On the road, the traffic flies
by. It fills the air with exhaust and anger. The girls look at the fence,
rusted and curling up at the bottom. It hits
them that even in the forgiving evening light,
their field is pitiful. The infield is dust
and stones. On the baseball field, the only dust
comes from freshly chalked lines. Resentment catches
on, courses through the girls. The quietest of them, the pitcher with light
colored eyes, says her mother knows a lawyer. This flies
from girl to girl and hits
them like a line drive. The trainer pulls up to the fence.
He hops out of his cart, swearing when a sharp corner of the fence
slices his arm. He kicks up dust
as he approaches and hits
the right fielder gently on the back in greeting. He catches
the tenseness in the air, swats at a mosquito that flies
by his ear. He tries to joke, keeping his voice light,
but he sees how the girls glare at the fence. He catches
them kicking at the dust, murderously swatting flies.
He hits open the lid of his kit, wondering what's brewing in the fading
light.
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