Saturday Scrimmage

The sleet hits the glass like gravel.

I should say something about character,

or how the grass grows back, but honestly

the muddy cleat by the door looks

like a dead bird on its side.

Plastic spikes pointing at nothing.

You didn't even take off your socks

before disappearing upstairs.

I think about the bench, the cold metal

pressing into the back of your legs.

The draft is coming through the sash.

I’m bad at this. I’m bad

at telling you it’s fine

to just sit there and watch the game

without ever touching the ball.