the field

without hardly
a wink
a building
rises
on the gravel
laden lot
of
broken glass
and
fly balls,
bases made
of flattened
boxes,
a place where
in darkness
on july nights
sometimes
virginity
was lost. we
called it the
field, but it
wasn't really.
it was
nothing, a
barren stretch
of unshaded
pavement, with
weeds fighting
through the cracks,
but for a few
short
summers it was
everything,
a place to run,
to and invent your
life
before it began.