After the cows chew the grass down, we’ll play, he said. After the rains pass.
The cross bar falls from one upright and the other looks like a katydid leg.
When they don’t contain the game, they frame a local world.
Near the old church, in front of the municipal building, beside a house, at the edge of a lake, just beyond the stone fence bounding the village….
Like a big eye, he said. Watching for us to come kicking a ball.
Through the center circle, dragging toes to trace a midfield line, they make the symbol for infinity.
It’s funny, he said, we always meet here. Where no one lives.
Not a bad place to sit for lunch, in the packed dirt below the crossbar. There’s no grass, so the cows don’t loom and splash you with urine.
The frame of the goal, like a cocked ear. Listens for us.
Everyone picks up stones because the playing field belongs to everyone.
Looks strong enough to hold me. One way to find out.
We had one that was metal and through-bolted, but it rusted-out the second year.
The skinny cows pass under, regardless.
Instead of a net, a line of trees. A rim of rock. The hills terraced with corn and onions. A dirt road.
The posts being of different lengths, the goal resembles a letter h.
And on the other side, bounded by the tracks of a pickup truck.
