Rush

        Dave's mother clangs the dinner bell
        but we're five yards from the goal
        and winning touchdown, so we hike the ball
        as Wayne paws at the scrimmage line, huffing
        "One missippi, two missippi" up to five
        when he rushes like a mad bull
        Dave picks Tom, Amanda gets free
        in the end zone, and I loft the ball
        on the crisp fall air, dead leaves
        circling above--
        in this moment the game is winnable:
        it turns on the practiced curve
        of a steady spiral.