Floodlight Friday

When the Spring air makes those
down below show flesh. And the
winking sun creates a glare from
my reflectors – occasionally blinding
a grass tender as they paint patterns
on the pitch – I know we won’t be used.

But this year,
from up here,
it looks like we
won’t be beaming
for quite a while longer.
Edith, Michael and Sonya
think something’s gone wrong.
We haven’t shone since the February
rain pounded against our steely frames.
We haven’t seen a ball kicked, flag waved,
net hung, or heard a song from those who come.
What’s going on? My Saturdays just aren’t the same.