I watched them build Target Field,

which began as a tundra of urban dirt,
far coarser than the tawny sand of
Lake Superior, I'm certain—
encircled by asthmatic, yellowed buildings
blotched by bird shit and cigarette ash,
now reflecting hymns about peanuts—
I met every construction worker
when their lime-green jackets began
to pierce the groggy grey morning—
I was oblivious until the marble of it
stood directly atop me; now I sit
inside its popular, patriotic prison—

waiting for a bus to whisk me away
to where we build flowers in the wet sand.