My father was famous for
noticing endings
admitting defeats
accepting declines
moving along
being a good, end-of-game sport.

Sometimes
he’d spark a surprise
come back—
an evening of the score.
“The folks are as good
as the people” he’d declare.

But as life
invariably turns out,
the folks are
   rarely
            as good
                         as the people
     the pitcher as the batter
     the husband as the wife
     the striker as the goalie
     the salesman as the prospect
     the child as the parent
     the ying as the yang.
In competitions someone
always conquers, even if just a bit;
the other
always loses, even if just surface wounds—
death always comes
natural or quick.

Then you
know:
“It’s all over
        but the crying.”

Dad,
I’ve been crying,
but when will I know
“it’s over?”
And, since some “folks” aren’t
so good after all, please tell:
        How victorious is victory?
        Who is defeated in defeat?
        What is the final score?
        Who won again?

The true score for when it’s over is
perhaps how
we make sense of the endings,
                                                    beginnings,
                                                                ­          and
                                 rebeginnings
                of life
shared and                                                              ­                             solitary.

So where is that game clock
that tally board, that ledger to
release my game
announce my endings
settle my scores

so I can do my crying
and
prepare
for next season?

        18.i.11