Life
For him
Must be
The shivering of
A great drum
Beaten with swift sticks
Then at the closing hour
The lights go out
And there is no music at all
And death becomes
An empty cabaret
And eternity an unblown saxophone
And yesterday
A glass of gin
Drunk long
Ago
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 3, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
I understand what
a jump shot is,
certain mechanics
of the body, hand
positions, elbow
alignment, follow
through. Enough
player names to
mention around
the imaginary water-
cooler if I found
myself there. A body
at rest still needs
to hydrate. I cried
watching Bird
and Magic in that
documentary and
own a small collection
of expensive high-top
sneakers in various
colorways—used
exclusively to walk
my pets or to the
coffee shop for
an almond croissant.
Fresh to death. On
my mantle, four second
place trophies from
intramural wrestling
all before fifth grade.
Pitter patter sprawl.
I can’t remember
swimming. I mean,
I can’t swim. I can’t
drive. Sometimes
I miss a high five,
the pat on the ass.
I swung and missed
at tee-ball, golf. Traded
cards for the love
of the potential investment.
George Brett, I’ll always
love your name.
I appreciate highlights,
trick plays as much as
the next: The Statue
of Liberty, Flea Flickers,
The Changing Light
at Sandover. I was
born in the suburbs
of the city of brotherly
bullies, poor sports,
famous boo-ers and
stadium court houses.
I was the only boy
cut from my seventh
grade soccer team.
It’s in my blood to lose
at all games, even Uno,
especially Monopoly,
and when I do, I spit
into my palm or refuse
to shake hands.
Copyright © 2015 by Brett Fletcher Lauer. Originally published in the Winter 2015 issue of Prairie Schooner. Used with permission of Prairie Schooner.
Twenty-two stalwarts in stripes and shorts Kicking a ball along, Set in a square of leather-lunged sports Twenty-two thousand strong, Some of them shabby, some of them spruce, Savagely clamorous all, Hurling endearments, advice or abuse, At the muscular boys on the ball. Stark and stiff ’neath a stranger’s sky A few hundred miles away, War-worn, khaki-clad figures lie, Their faces rigid and grey— Stagger and drop where the bullets swarm, Where the shrapnel is bursting loud, Die, to keep England safe and warm— For a vigorous football crowd! Football’s a sport, and a rare sport too, Don’t make it a source of shame. To-day there are worthier things to do. Englishmen, play the game! A truce to the League, a truce to the Cup, Get to work with a gun. When our country’s at war, we must all back up— It’s the only thing to be done!
This poem is in the public domain.