There is a massive lot across from my place of work
dug out of a hillside
with eight or nine basketball courts lined back to back
only one of which still has its hoops.
When I’m waiting for the bus I gaze at it.
On the north side it is lined with gray thorn bushes.
Beyond it, to the east, one can see old church spires
and massive brick tenements.
Conspicuous in the thorn bushes dangles a single black bag
like a flag of some forgotten revolution, or one that has yet to come.
All of it engenders a kind of errant hopelessness,
or hopefulness, I can’t say which.
Above it, the moon looks faded
like the face of an old man who has begun
to comprehend death, or life, I can’t say which.
The chain linked fence that blocks it off is lined with trash
and the basketball courts, though covered with dust,
look pristine in the late afternoon light.
People walk up and down the street, not noticing.
As far as I can tell, nobody plays here anymore.
The sun goes down in the west, and the sky is beautiful.
Here, in this spot, something will be built
and in time, will be destroyed.
Not all things that are lost are grieved for.
Some things—like the black bag and this old lot—
can only grieve for themselves.
