11,199. THE WAYWARD CHILD OF GLEASON FIELD

THE WAYWARD CHILD 

OF GLEASON FIELD

Like maybe the wayward moon

thriving high but ever lonesome

in all its stages to full and wane

and full again we turn our heads

up to the light we see from Gleason

Field. It is nearly October first.

-

An old motorcar, the old, old type,

sits unmounted in the open clearing.

The dimmest of old metal tries to

shine. But there is nothing there, 

and the rubber has rotted from off

its rims. Weeds grow up around and

through what once was called a 

'running board.' Beneath this sky,

it too scrunches forward, determined

for something to be there for it.

-

It is nearly October first, and

this is Gleason Field.