digits digging divots, gyrating
in the finite field I have left on which to play,
bringing me closer to a goalless line    

mornings I ran the ball,
feeling the turf beneath me, green and flat  
in the afternoon I passed, hoping another would move onward
by eventide I oft punted, conceding my opponent
should be given his run, only to crash into me,
to be shoved into the demanding dirt,
a victim of my will, gravity,
and chiseling chance  

when the ball returned  
to me, as it eternally did,
I called another play, everyman scrambling
for a chance, at more measured madness, more
yardage marked by mocking minutes, that became
miles, hours, days, and more massive, metastatic
months, unstoppable, no matter who had the ball,
or how far their running feet  
would take them