Knots and Seconds

The whistle blew and the pack moved off,

a frantic scramble toward the far goal.

He is still here on the bench, hunched

in a silence I want to break with a hammer.

His fingers are small and trembling,

forcing a frayed aglet toward a muddy eyelet.

It won't go in. It bends and peels.

His face is the color of a brick furnace.

I grip the cold chain-link fence,

my own hands twitching to do the work.

But if I tie the knot, he’ll never walk

into the game on his own two feet.