Sunday Game

A poem I wrote while watching my wife play adult league soccer.

Seated on hot aluminum bleachers,
I watch them on green-yellow grass.

Sweat soaked Sunday warriors,
their heads craning toward the blue sky,
panting like race horses,
chasing a once-white ball,
kicking,
colliding,
falling to the ground,
and rising again;
a pattern stitched in ninety minutes.

Whispering past,
mud-caked,
the ball is a note
in a measure to a song
written…