The football stadium
across the mostly buried street
did not win this year.
The mostly small
football stadium, the mostly
small year. The young men
chosen for being too large
failed beautifully. Crash
went their egos, their
helmets, their future
names like butterflies
in the sports announcer’s mouth
on crisp October night air.
Now the stadium is alone
with its thoughts, waits for snow
to touch its aluminum bleachers
like a cheek. It’s human privilege
to look where something was
and is no more. This is a kind
of winning. You will eventually
win your own stadium.


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