Sportsmanship

Sportsmanship

He takes my hand;

warm and tight.

Meets my gaze,

fair and square.

The ball rolls

next to his foot.

He ignores it.

Then he grins.

“Well done, mate.”

The breeze— playful

ruffles his hair,

ruffles the grass

across the green grass

of the playing field.

I mirror his smile;

bright thoughts,

nice words.

Forgetting that—

just a second ago,

I was ready to rip his head off;

just for that ball.

(Heh. I don't like sport either.

All my poems are snide protests against SOMETHING.

That's just the way things go.)