They dance on a grid of grass,
these tough-boned boys,
padded for the joy of contact,
hurling the fortress of their bodies,
thud and crash.
The quarterback with his hands full of hope
turns making distance between himself and attackers,
dodge-darting on the green
forty-five thousand square feet shifting around him
like sunlight shadowing through branches.
Far away he sees hands alone
in a fraction of space and time.
He cocks his arm,
and with his mind loaded with alarm and precision
fires the ball through a canyon of sky.
The distant hands leap and wait,
the ball swiftly lingers,
then after a time comes to rest
in the receiver’s adoring fingers.
He presses hard against his heart
the object of his affection,
and runs for all he’s worth
toward the point and purpose of the game.
The thrower waits for news.
It is all he can do.
His part of the dance is done.
2014