Field Day

In her purple Field Day shirt and white tennis shoes,

Her hair pulled up in a pony tail,

From a hurried morning ready,

She stands there with anger in her face.

“How dare you just sit there?!”

She continues on to explain,

“I don’t care if you think it was my fault,

I know it was yours.”

“Why would you not do it?”

“I was counting on you!”

“We have nothing now,

It’s your fault, not mine.”

With crossed arms, she stares it down,

Indignant, wanting an answer.

There is no answer,

Only oblivious kids of her class,

Waiting their turn with different reason,

They wish to climb on it.

With silver painted shine and chains hanging down,

The hydrant says no word to the cross girl.

The smoldering stench of burnt carbon

Fills the girl’s nostrils, she is taken back there.

It simmers under the surface.

~Regina Holt May 23, 2011