The Field
His dog stops often to sniff
the scuffed turf
of this recreation park.
It smells last Sunday's soccer game,
by tracing the sweaty play, the spots
where the spinning ball
slid crazily,
through layers of musky mud.
The man of course smells little of this,
he only smells the ethereal
trace of her memory,
her arms clasped around him,
when on this very field
they had to part.
Yet even here
in this rucked and rutted earth
like a dog he follows a certain scent
one that the dog never will.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2024
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