Sports metaphor is not really my thing, but we all are subject to getting blind-sided.


The Blind Side

Seconds, only seconds,
when ten make a lifetime
A rush of defenders,
guys built like locomotives
He drops back and back,
to find a downfield receiver
in a current of motion and color,
no time, no time, no time

Third down and twenty-three,
an absolute need to get the ball
not where he is, but where he will be
at a split-moment, crossing
a place in time and space
that doesn’t exist, but will
A study in the futures-market
of moving bodies

Drop back again, shrug him off,
step up or eat the ball
The time is now, make it happen,
or crumple and walk away
That long slump-shouldered walk
across the field to roars
that could be cheers, might be yet,
except for the blind side

Poetry Collection: Broken Pieces
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman’s
poetry collection
BROKEN PIECES
available here in print
or as an e-Book
in your favorite formats.