wordweeds

Our sons, their plastic shoulders dream
Of manhood. Each time a body falls
And a groan rises up like a man,
And the body is rolled or limps off field,
Holding a stomach, a wobbled leg,
There is a mother somewhere.
Maybe her eyes water, too.

2016

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 24th, 2017 at 9:29 pm and is filed under 2016. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.