Friday night 50°
a full star field in attendance,
a rush
of voices fill the thin air,
steam from hot dogs, all beef,
floats into
the chill,
delicate, parfumed hands
clap in rhythm, one, two,
in rhythm,
three, four.
Boys at play
grass stains on the knees of their pants.
Friday
evening 31°
a sky of silence.
Snow.
Falling on flesh and bone.
Rags covering
dark skin
automatic weapons covering rags
automatic words covering the
other side
where boys at war wait
for the halftime whistle.
Oblong,
made of animal skin, floating in the air,
an abstraction,
until caught
by
hands strong, but lacking in life,
confident in this moment
bathed in
smiles and cheers and adulation
covering
the fear
of tomorrow.
What of tomorrow
as the drums beat louder
in rhythm, one, two
in rhythm,
three, four?
Grab your gear, move out
assembly point C, this is not
a drill.
This is your day.
Picture in the paper,
kisses from the
girls, oh
those kisses from the girls,
newspapers need to know
how did
you do it, how
did you catch that pass? Did you know
what had
happened when
the explosion ripped through the compound?
Sergeant, can
you tell us
how many dead?
How does this attack . . .
When were . .
.
Why didn't you . . .
Should we bring our boys home?
Snow fell
softly,
an afterthought to the cold.
The field is covered.
The stars
gaze down
at a standing figure,
hands outstretched, waiting for the
ball.
The clock ticks down.
The crowd is hushed,
anticipation a crafty
thief.
Boy at play, holes in his pants,
cradles the pass, pulling it
to his body
through his chest
and out his back.
The final whistle blows.
Poet’s
Bio: Christopher Hivner is from a small town in
