Tinkling Glass and Bare Feet

Fifteen years later and you can still hear the glass fall,
a crinkling, tinkling sound in the wind,
walls of the stuff still left,
a carpet of the fallen on the ground behind you,
carefully roped over,
while you sit in the green plastic chair
some other curious soul left conveniently out,
just past the ropes,
sitting in the sun, listening to the music of the fallen,
the song of wind through the abandoned racetrack,
grass overgrown, walls all artsy with grafitti,
curse words and code words, phallic faces, marks
of the angry and the facetious, You sit in the sun,
taking off your shoes and let the heat
and memories of races you never saw wash over you,
content to imagine the field well mowed,
the horses running and the crowds drunk
with beer and betting stubs, to imagine it all
while you sit barefoot in the sun,
a thing that would never have been allowed
in the racetrack’s heyday, thinking to yourself
that perhaps, you are better off alone, now,
in this forbidden place alone with the sun
and tinkling glass.

About this poem

Sometimes the things in our lives that blow up give us an opportunity for something better.

The picture was taken at an abandoned racetrack to the south of me in Pownal, Vermont. It was a lovely day taking pictures of the ruins, and finally, yes, sitting in the sun.

Tom