The Old Baseball Field Poem by Max Reif

Haven't walked here in a year—last time
it was all dug into World War I-like trenches,
pipes beside each, waiting to be installed.

I'd railed, from my mental trench, against the company
for ruining this green place along the bike path,
this oasis where I used to lie on my back
watching the clouds move or the daylight dim.

Now it's pristine again, the holes filled in,
edenic dew on the morning sprigs of grass.
The gas company has worked its sleight-of-hand,
and I try to reach, to take back all my rage.