The Bleachers and Grass

The soft slated metal of the bleachers,
With their silver slates dug into the ground,
Absorb all the sun before the field,
And only cast shadows on the ground.

The field grass glistens wet and green with dew,
With drops dangled from every blade,
And where it is painted white it stays the same,
Shining in the sun with every blade.

Past the grey fence of the arena the bleachers stare back
Into the end zone and all around the track:
Bright red, soft gravel and dulling white lines,
The grass, grey, bleachers, and track.

At night at the game the stadium lights glare
Off of the plastic looking grass and players,
All covered in what lingers of competition,
The grass is on the field and under the players.