I sometimes wonder these days if I have anything left to say. But I suppose I will surprise myself. I think I used to wonder the same thing in 2008. I guess it is always a surprise. You look in the empty room of your brain and nothing is there -- but if you relax and keep looking things begin to appear. Magic.
Anyhow, here is my sports oriented poem --
Fourth and Inches
Why is everything, now, fourth and inches,
from planning dinner on the phone
to sitting on the couch, our legs almost touching,
watching the evening news.
Whoever has the ball, predictably,
will take it up the middle
against a goal line stand of determined eyes
behind a face masked in steel,
legs churning mud that only grows deeper
with each collision, which might be sport
except we wear no pads
and bleed too much behind the scars.
It might make sense
if either of us lined up near a goal
instead of the middle of the field,
or if a yard of mud had any worth,
or if we had not once
been on the same team.