Lover, common scrap of paper,
I didn’t mean to throw the interception
The crossing pattern never came together
Not even being reflective in a private
Reservoir with trickles of melancholy
Photographs helped. Time was the snow
Battered the afternoon and little
By little the whole field got all wound up
We didn’t even have to be clever or
give a cent to the drunks apocrypha.
Culture would occupy the clover and that
would be as fine as an old movie on girl’s night out.
Besides, the good luck committee is selling garland
Someone fetch a ladder.
Like someone knowing the price
Of a relic, I can’t wait until the next
Scrimmage. We can carry our cleats
Down to the goal post
And should
we pause at the beginning of this
long pilgrimage we could jot down a
beautiful childhood.
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