there are at least twenty of them on the field
they stare at me with a foreign gaze
that tells me i am not here
the gray sky tells me it’ll pass over soon
their screaming placed in the wind as it passes
through blades of grass;

there i am running back for a bag i will only
throw away, on the bench on
this road, i tell myself it is normal and
think my thoughts horribly loud; passerbys
throw glances;

on the bench i sit alone
but i do not miss their
gazes.