My Mother

July rainfall

scatters sound into the distance

scaffolding screeches under pressure

scared little ants hide underneath the balcony

scarfing down the water are the gutters

scolding me, her eighteen year old

heady, willful, and wandering

son

August and September, we don opposing color

blue and silver hardly align with red and gold

I’m young, she says, but I’m eager

football connects us, debates shape my words

vocabulary is tested, tried, and found wanting

back to the blackboard, I write articles

soon edited, later published

son

Through the cheering in her celebration

and the quiet resolve in the face of defeat

she remains ever focused on the result

never to play, never to cross the goal

never to lift the Lombardi

yet, nestled in our little home

she has not one, not two

but three

Sons, two, and a daughter

champions of more than just diamonds

victors of more than a hundred yards

of AstroTurf

carriers of our name, and this blood

we share, and we elevate to higher levels

each defeat, each victory

another proof of our mettle

Every fall, winter, and spring

the city grows darker, the people colder

friends move away, enemies find their way

right underneath our very nose

but they never get in, they can’t ever win

because they’re trapped in the gap

created by the relentless pressure taught

by the greatest coach of all time

My Mother

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