When it’s your boys, when they are yours
you hope just for them to run off
the field with heads high. You hope
for nothing but the shininess of pride,
the quick gold glitter of no mistakes,
no Buckners standing cock-kneed and staring
and made the goat for a city. You hope
for something better for yours. You
cringe, afraid. These are not your glories.
And that is how you know that you
are meant to sit here in this chair,
your eyes shielded, your Achilles heels
tucked so firmly into your shoes.