Poetry by Michael Diebert

                     ​Arthur Sollano CC




In the Human Services Parking Lot

Some days I want to run from everyone
I love.  Some days I don’t.  
Which day today is I don’t know
but this blip on the map
seemed as good as any other
to run to.  The building is closed.
I’m the only car.  The sky
is serene, not often what
we get so early in spring.
The soccer field blazes with waiting.
Two boys in uniform appear, 
here to drill, perhaps to dream
of sidelines packed again.  
They barely break a sweat--
they look, they think
before they kick, no big whoop,
they can size things up.
I love the routine.  I love that they don’t
complain when the ball sails wide
and must be chased.
If they’re aware of what they bring
to the field, if they’re weighed down
by the current uncertainty,
they don’t betray it.  Today 
I nearly screamed at strangers
standing in line with me.
Tomorrow, the day after,
the day after that
seemed variations on a theme.
I walk past the taped-off playground 
to the wobbly picnic table
and sit.  I tell myself
I have most of what I need.
And the boys have made a plan.
They dribble and pass
like true believers, zigzag
through phantom defenders,
launch a shot with perfect English 
past the imaginary keeper’s arms.

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Michael Diebert is the author of Thrash (Brick Road, 2022) and Life Outside the Set (Sweatshoppe, 2022).  He teaches writing and literature at Perimeter College, Georgia State University and previously served as poetry editor for The Chattahoochee Review.  New work is forthcoming in EcoTheo Review.  A two-time cancer survivor, Michael lives in Avondale Estates, Georgia with his wife and dogs.
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