And So They Dance
The brisk, leafy wind carries
with it the march to mums
draped in multi-colored ribbons,
the musty scent of sweat and Gatorade
that marks football and Fall
anywhere in this great state of Texas.
Even blink-in-the-road towns
like this one have rival teams
they have faced off in battle
for generations of touchdowns
and field goals that sail through the uprights
as the last seconds fade into destiny.
Lee Perkins, who has no children,
places posters in his shoe store window
a full month before the big game,
his stray moments, of which there are many,
filled with small talk about halfbacks
and the never-benchers, those players
who have more than a love
for the pigskin, but the skill
to loft themselves as skyward
as the passes they have thrown
since before they could scribble
their own names.
Lee tracked the equipment
when he was 16, playing
from the sidelines, holding up
the walls after the big game,
as he watched the football captain
slow-step with Nancy Wright,
the only girl Lee would ever love.
April 24, 2015