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These Nine Rows

I see the white hot glare of sunshine through my eyelashes,

peering through the thick branches of the tree

looming over the neat dark green grass and me.

 

I hear the gleeful whistling

of the miniscule birds

soaring over the calming hum of the musky white golf cart.

 

I smell the springs scents

of the happily bright dandelions and mud,

plastered by our footprints

on the dull shining rows of the metal bleachers.

 

I taste the damp air

on this mild Spring morning

that reminds me of how it felt

when my lungs burned

with the salty tang of the ocean water.

 

I touch the cold, silver bleachers

chilling my legs through my black leggings,

giving me a surprisingly refreshing joyful feeling.

 

I feel my soft purple jacket,

restraining my arms from the cool breeze

that hits my pale face and enters my ears,

singing them a sharp, cunning lullaby that only makes me more awake.

 

I wonder if these nine rows of bleachers

will ever be demolished,

just another pile of dust on the flat slab of Earth.  

Crushed.  

Eliminated.  

Just like a business with no customers, pointless.

 

I wish I could feel the soft grass beneath my legs

instead of the odd metal

of the cold bleachers taking the feeling out of me.

 

I hope the grass always stays this green

and the bleachers always stay this cold

because this Spring air is too good to last more than a day.

 

I know that someday the deep green grass will fade,

the smell of Spring will vanish

and these bleachers will get warm,

but the feeling will always stick.

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