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 in spontaneity
by an orchestra of twenty-two.

A whistle.
A water-bottle shower.
They start again:
Cleats striking synthetic leather,
as the heat rises.

I watch them quietly.

On hot bleachers,
wives, brothers, friends
shout as their warriors
dance in and out of rhythm.

A goal—just one.
A whistle.
All done.

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