Floyd Skloot
An Open Field
I sit in August sun and stare at grass
brittled by drought. Dreaming it green
again, I am a child of seven, breathless
on a concrete ramp in Ebbets Field.
I can see down onto the clipped infield
grass, hear the sound of breathless
voices, the slap of leather. Greened
with fresh stains from the grass,
baseballs roll to a stop where grass
and dirt meet. I stop for breath, less
winded now than astonished by the green
and perfect shape of the playing field.
If I open my eyes, surely the grass
will have begun to grow green
where I cannot see it, in this breathless
moment when dream is still an open field.
