My Turn

It's a world of crazy rules;
the plain fact is that not everyone
gets an equal opportunity to play.

Evolution has tamed savage beast
into beastly capitalist, as if whimsical
fashion is costly progress, not just

another diversionary tactic, name
brands branding every garment
hoarded into that walk-in closet.

I select expensive matching ensemble
to highlight positive changes
that forty odd years have wrought.

No one at the last reunion
even knew me, assuming wrongly
I was someone else's husband.

So why return a decade later?
Life is full of questions for
which there are no easy answers.

Even though that was a lifetime ago,
incessant voices of memories
still stop me like a car wreck.

There's nothing to see here, so
we huddle up to hear quarterback
calling the long out on three.

Running back is full of 'roid rage
at the guard who accidentally pulls
his blocker in the wrong direction

so that the wide open wide receiver
never gets the guaranteed score
as porous line allows a hard sack.

Guess which one was me.
That's what replays in my head
remembering my gaming years,

frustration as disappointment,
more losses than wins and that
cheerleader way out of my league.

In my yearbook, she taunted me
with her effortless beauty,
and a short note confessing

she was most likely to break
my heart when admitting she
had a secret crush on me.

I doubt it was true; more likely
one of my buddies toying
with me long after the fact.

She never acknowledged
my questioning existence before,
ignoring my best longing stares.

This is a new century's chance
for vindication in having survived
wear and tear of intervening years.

I will be calling the play this time,
going long in hopes that time
forgives missed plays according
to rules we play by now.