It’s just turned cold in the mornings
on the field where wide-shouldered
young men hone the heat of their prime
and imagine that they are gods.
He hears the clash of power
against power, the grunts, the curses,
the bleeding, that old gravelly voice
snarling into the sweaty steam of stupid youth.
He watches until his soft body shivers
and his tired joints begin to ache
with the stiffness of relentless melancholy
and a longing for the ball.
This poem first appeared in Strong Verse (January 2013).
Used here with the author’s permission.