Poetry and Football

I will throw you a hail Mary of a sonnet,

forward lateral a double entendre

and tackle you with dissonant consonant overconfidence.

You will cry, "facemask!"

as the look of surprise is torn from your cheeks,

as though there are rules

for poetry.

This is a pick-up game we play

no boundary lines chalked in

no referees but ourselves.

This is two hand touch.

We count Mississippis before we blitz,

and our touchdown lines

are the stick and the big rock.

This is a bar game

where we pride ourselves on the boundaries we tread,

the ones we made up ourselves

and still can’t agree on.

Poetry slam.

If we told people on the street

we were olympic curlers instead,

more people would understand

what we were saying that we do.

We can delude ourselves

all we like

about our plans to make the pros

one day

let some scout in the bleachers

discover us on some open mic

bump us up to the college circuit

the big show

just to run the same two poems

over and over every night for a year

while all of our friends

shake their heads

at how we've compromised our art

for the sake of being recognized

for being good at it.

We misconstrue applause as fame,

find celebrity in insecurity

and point fingers as though

the results were everything.

We insist we are justified

each time we cripple and blame

those who insist they were justified

for crippling and blaming.

And maybe we are.

How do you score that?

Is that all the fans came to see?

Let's play for a score,

put on a show

while not forgetting the love of the game.

Let's put the third stringers out there

alongside the poetry legends

and let them teach each other something

about craftsmanship and style.

This is our old stomping ground

that we need to treat like it was shiny and new.

Fresh blood keeps us young,

and we never know.

One of these fresh-faced kids

might take the field

with a shaky voice and a steady hand.

Watch this kid throw a rocket.

Ask them if they suited up today

mostly for the gossip and the drama;

whether they stepped up to the mic

for that first time

ever planning to make use

of the padding

and the helmet.

Let us sit the bench for a day,

watch poetry as spectators,

mostly for the commercials and the awkward banter.

Let us write to change the world again

like we used to

before we ever wanted to be famous.