Neighborhood (1)

The young men in their bright padded uniforms could—except for their coach with his muddy tattoo, his shades—they could be young men of any age, any day this century. I have no idea of the thoughts that churn without center, inside their close haircuts; or what climate, what private weather has clothed the slow lengthening of their bones. But, from here, from this window—does it matter? The sky is sufficiently blank. You could never tell by looking, whether it meant to resemble a high marble ceiling, a pall, or just someone's painting of clouds before rain. You could never tell if it was a lid closed on peace, or on war. Or if an eye lay behind it, alive in the dark, knowing                               the difference. Meanwhile, the young men practice.