There’s barely a transition from the parking lot to turf
except for the un-mowed weeds. Kids run ahead of
salt and peppered parents. Color coded bee-lines swarm
the rectangles where they’ll play cluster style scoreless soccer.
My six-year old swings his foot fast forward and back-
We think he’s precocious and visualizing the game.
We’re smug and say “careful you’re tripping people. Hurry up.”
We haul captain’s chairs that dig into our shoulders
and orange slices in plastic baggies we’ll take home to recycle.
We worry we’re too old to be parents on these mini-patchwork fields
at 9am on a Saturday. We’re grateful when he says, “Look.”
He hunkers down and kicks again- smirks when
Silver wisp dandelion heads jerk back on stems-
spring back bald and broken by the
force of his sharp toothed cleat.
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Photo by ·tlc∙/Flickr