he thinks they built the bleachers
on top of him so that his thoughts
would echo off of metal staircases

he’s been here for an hour and
the grass is sipping his legs. his spine
is nervous and he huddles against a pole
so he doesn’t fall over.
he thinks he’s trying to impress someone
but there are no scouts in the seats
or girls with sports bras peeking
behind the chain-link fence
there’s a shadow over his torso like
someone’s sitting above him and
writing him down

he gets up, blinking, and looks
but there’s only an orange streetlight making
him thin.