Watching soccer, it’s hard not
to recall what you’ve lost and will.
Oak leaves fold into green
goblets. Branches strain in a wind
that tears at quick‐stepping teens
barking into phones. Hard to live
in this scant range of time
and climate and then slowly edge
off the frame as though you’ve
spilled wine on your pants.
You’re simply old, or at least
older, which rankles your boss
since you care less if you sound
lucid, since you wear your bald
mortality like a badge. On the field,
kids are soaked through but, tonight,
no parents exhort them to shoot.
They plod on, splashing, as cones
of wet light settle over their match.