Kickoff.
A high arc spiral from father to son
Across fallen fluttering leaves.
Wishes. Encouragements. Settlements.
You zip your jacket against the cold.
Second quarter.
Bulldogs dig into New Haven mud;
A plastic thock of pad-to-pad.
Handsome Dan charms the cheerleaders.
The underclassmen sell hot chocolate.
Halftime.
Aunts bake turkeys while grandfathers gloat
Brothers pout and sisters strut
The Coach bellows “Dedication!”
Cranberry prayers in breathy fog.
Third quarter.
A pimpled pigskin bloated,
Too tight for your grip to toss
And violate November’s taught linen.
Bands in the stands press the party on.
Fourth Quarter.
Hands are held, cheers sent up.
Flags waved, pennants folded.
Hearts are wrapped in flannel.
Our silly love is suspended in an icy milk sky.
In summer; we worshipped near naked bodies.
Gods that sprint over the clay.
Come autumn, we’ve grown burly,
Tossing our Giants into the fray.
We wish for shoulders to lean into the wind.
We speak of war, we plan for the worst...
Football is a New England game.
A high arc spiral from father to son
Across fallen fluttering leaves.
Wishes. Encouragements. Settlements.
You zip your jacket against the cold.
Second quarter.
Bulldogs dig into New Haven mud;
A plastic thock of pad-to-pad.
Handsome Dan charms the cheerleaders.
The underclassmen sell hot chocolate.
Halftime.
Aunts bake turkeys while grandfathers gloat
Brothers pout and sisters strut
The Coach bellows “Dedication!”
Cranberry prayers in breathy fog.
Third quarter.
A pimpled pigskin bloated,
Too tight for your grip to toss
And violate November’s taught linen.
Bands in the stands press the party on.
Fourth Quarter.
Hands are held, cheers sent up.
Flags waved, pennants folded.
Hearts are wrapped in flannel.
Our silly love is suspended in an icy milk sky.
In summer; we worshipped near naked bodies.
Gods that sprint over the clay.
Come autumn, we’ve grown burly,
Tossing our Giants into the fray.
We wish for shoulders to lean into the wind.
We speak of war, we plan for the worst...
Football is a New England game.
Yes, it is. And I can see the field and feel the cold of the field....
ReplyDeleteI get a sense of "in our own time" from this poem that feels comforting, good. I suppose that is the beauty of autumn. Whoever, whatever, we are, cold comes and we will have to deal with that fact first. Football reminds us to be strong and to play.
Back for another read and loving this all over again and seeing it in another, different way. Perhaps because I am reading your words after a long walk during which the cold was less a bother than a source of strength after a certain amount of enduring it. New England. You give it a beautiful voice.
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