Sports metaphor is not really my thing, but we all are subject to getting blind-sided. |
|
The Blind SideSeconds, only seconds,when ten make a lifetime A rush of defenders, guys built like locomotives He drops back and back, to find a downfield receiver in a current of motion and color, no time, no time, no time Third down and twenty-three, an absolute need to get the ball not where he is, but where he will be at a split-moment, crossing a place in time and space that doesn’t exist, but will A study in the futures-market of moving bodies Drop back again, shrug him off, step up or eat the ball The time is now, make it happen, or crumple and walk away That long slump-shouldered walk across the field to roars that could be cheers, might be yet, except for the blind side |
This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection BROKEN PIECES available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats. |