An attempt at poetry

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I am not a poet. I don't even pretend to be. Well, sometimes I do, but that's only when I'm trying really hard to wax eloquent.

I do a lot of driving at night to and from games of all shapes and sizes. I've found myself wondering what a Friday night would like like if you're flying overhead. As the sun sets and the lights on high school football stadiums come on, that's got to be a really cool view. So the other day, I decided to set my version on paper. It's not polished - it may never be the exact picture I see or hear in my head. But here's the draft anyway. It's free verse, which means it doesn't have a rhyme scheme or an exact rhythm to meet.

Friday Night

The sun sinks slowly in the west,
But the town doesn't sink into silence with it.
Instead, cars and pickups stream toward the high school
Where lights tower above the gathering place - it's time to play.

The crowd streams in - dressed in school colors,
Joking and laughing with friends,
Discussing the weather with fellow farmers
Looking askance at those in colors not theirs.

The whistle blows as a riot of color fills the western sky
A lovely backdrop to the start of the weekly clash.
Young gladiators do battle on the gridiron.
The crowd cheers or groans - all that's needed is Caesar with a thumbs up or down.

As time wanes and the moon waxes
The crowd reaches a fever pitch
And then it's done.

The combatants shake hands.
The crowd trickles out of the stadium,
Headlights on pickups and cars turn on,
Tail-lights show pauses.

The field is empty - only echoes of the clash and crowd remain.
The lights tower still but then their eyes close.
All is still - the stars look down on the quiet grass
Until next Friday night.