Empty Stadium Poem by Manabendra Lal Bhuyan

The crowd was pushing towards the exit,
Tired, impatient, hungry, drunk;
Cheers rose from one, curses from another,
While some stayed behind a little longer.

The crowd was spilling towards the gate,
Footstep after footstep, growing late;
Voices called names through the aisles,
Laughter wandered for another while.

The footsteps have already outpaced the echoes behind.
The seats are empty. No, not all.

Posters and signs still cheer the teams;
Others bear protests from some unrelated world.
Wrappers and cups, food containers and trays.
Now they get to relax upon the seats.

The guests are gone; their remnants remain,
Crushed beneath the feet and trampled again.
Two tickets lie stuck to the floor,
Their corners curled, their ink running blue.
A plastic cup sleeps on its side,
Still holding a mouthful of warm beer.
Wrappers cling to the grooves of the seats,
Food trays carry the grease of the night.

Torn merch and jerseys of the losing team;
The winning team's colors are scattered too.
And one shirt lies crumpled among them;
A team that didn't even qualify for the league.

At the far end of the row. Premium seating.
A seat pulled slightly back,
as though the night had leaned into it.
A scarf hangs from the railing,
still damp against the memory of her shoulder.
A hair clip bites into its folds,
holding a strand of her presence behind.
An empty glass rolls beneath the seat,
its rim stained with lipstick,
dark and glossy against the glass.
Burgundy?

Beneath another row,
a velvet box lies flattened beneath a heel.
Beside it, a white flower,
its stem broken clean.
A champagne cork rests beside two crystal flutes,
both still carrying the night's last gleam.
Red envelopes, embossed and heavy,
lie scattered around the broken bottle.

A cufflink catches the light a few steps ahead,
competing with a pearl earring nearby.
A silk ribbon has slipped beneath the seats.
And a business card, thick with gold lettering,
lies among them,
minding its own business on the floor.

The cleaning staff is relaxing in their room.
They were drinking and cheering throughout the game too.
Their brooms lean quietly against the wall;
their gloves wait beside the doors.

Perhaps the evidence has got to live a little longer.
Perhaps the brooms can wait till morning.
Let the tickets keep their beer stains,
let the scarf keep the warmth of someone's shoulder,
let the crushed velvet box keep its secret.

Perhaps they have lived long enough
to tell the stories they carried,
stories written by the people
they had witnessed.

The stadium had held them all.
Those who came because it mattered,
Those who came because they were bored,
Those who came because their friends had come,
Those who came because they wanted someone,
Those who came because they wanted to be elsewhere.

For one, it was the game;
for another, merely Tuesday.
For one, it was his first time seeing the team;
for another, the last game before leaving town.

Some came alone.
Some came in groups large enough
to become a small crowd of their own.
Some came for the game;
some came for the people beside them.
Teens skipped classes for the game.
A father brought his son
to see his first game.

Someone cheered; someone booed.
Someone dozed through all the noise.
Someone was busy on their phone,
someone recording every voice.
Someone came after it had begun;
Someone left before it was done.

Someone fixed the other's collar.
Someone stole a mouthful of popcorn.
Someone leaned across the noise
To hear what could not otherwise be heard.
A hand rested upon another's knee.
Someone laughed at a joke that wasn't funny.
Someone leaned across for one small kiss,
Just before the crowd erupted.

Thousands of people, but inside that crowd,
there were countless separate stories.
Now the footsteps paint the floors everywhere,
while the shoes and the people wearing them
have long gone.

The stadium, when it was filled, felt empty.
Now that the stadium is empty,
it feels filled with all the stories it held.

Tomorrow, the stadium gets ready for another game.
And all the stories get rewritten,
perhaps again, and again.