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Image for the poem Blitz

Blitz


ghostly football heroes incanted by us.
city kids. asphalt. concrete. pollution.
we played on the street in autumn.
winter too, when the snow was light.

too slow to run, I’m at QB.
my only job: connect with my receivers.
when traffic hits, everybody scatters.
sometimes too late.

hut 1. hut 3. hike!
my best receiver’s open. I throw.
car comes screeching around the corner, unaware.
my receiver leaps for the catch.

I figure he’s as good as dead.
driver slams the brakes, maybe with both feet.
receiver comes down on the hood.
still holding the ball. 1st down.

one or two of my comrades will garner athletic
scholarships. their only battlefield will be one-
hundred yards of sod in the center of a stadium’s
cheering crowd, where the ‘Star Spangled Banner’

is merely a lullaby.
getting dark. supper’s almost ready. mothers
will be yelling from tenement windows.
it’s now or never.

bigger kids on the other team.
every damn time. future linebackers.
my O-line breaks down.
I am so f*cked…



Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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