Field Trip

What, though, could they learn
here, Pennsylvania’s slate sky

dull above the cortege of worn-out buses,
with brown bag lunches

and the sheer fact of sex
they haven’t quite yet come

to acknowledge, though the boys
are trying to toss grapes

down a poor girl’s blouse,
are pelting her now with their

intent, and just as quickly
as it begins, this game

of the body, the boys lose interest
when some gust blows a bag

of chips—flashing like tinsel
between the boulders—

out of their sweaty hands
and they’re shrieking

down Little Round Top,
receiving the good girls’ glares,

girls who have witnessed
their mothers’ stern admonishments

and know this is a kind
of love where they come from,

a town whose history
holds less blood

than the ground they’ve walked
all morning, dutifully
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