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Dust kicks up on the rusted gate.
Siren flashes down the block again.
Three stops down on the blue line track.
Tied up laces with a knot in back.
Squad car parked by the corner post,
Watching every single step we take.
Scrapped knees on the dirt pitch ground,
Running fast just to hold our ground.
Got no scouts in the bleachers here,
Just the noise of the avenue.
Grass trimmed sharp under floodlight beams.
Pristine jerseys with the stitched crest.
Three stops north on the upper line.
Coach calls drills till the clock runs out.
Father watching from the wooden bench,
Clipboard heavy with the future plans.
Private club on the gated hill,
Every pass has a price to pay.
Never saw a cruiser slow down slow,
Never had to check my pockets twice.
Two tracks running underneath,
(Bound by the iron rail).
Same sky, different destinations,
Divided by the boulevard.
Whistle blows, dust clears out.
Cross-town match bringing both sides out.
West side jersey meets east side green,
Line up standing on the sideline seam.
Eyes lock tight on the center line,
Two different worlds in the same daylight.
He wipes the mud off his broken cleats.
She ties her laces on the painted line.
Patrol car passes through the open park.
She looks away, he keeps his guard up high.
First touch coming off the opening whistle,
Two strangers playing for the exact same ball.
Same rail,
(Same sky).
Just three stops apart,
(Three stops apart).
