03-25-2016, 11:36 PM
Ten Years After the Big Game
Last night, I wore a miniskirt
to the reunion
instead of my helmet.
The teams were the same:
girls with Venus legs flytrap shut;
boys chasing tail
so no one thinks they like ass.
But I had switched sides.
Coach saw my nicked-up knees
and lead the offensive.
But you can’t unring the bell,
or unscrew the girl,
so I beat him to the punch
and gulped a big glass of fuck you:
my square jaw set;
my Adam’s apple bobbing
like a minor toady.
It was a bravura performance:
not a side-eye in the house.
Ten years after the big game, they all know
I can’t pass like I used to.
But I can strut.
Last night, I wore a miniskirt
to the reunion
instead of my helmet.
The teams were the same:
girls with Venus legs flytrap shut;
boys chasing tail
so no one thinks they like ass.
But I had switched sides.
Coach saw my nicked-up knees
and lead the offensive.
But you can’t unring the bell,
or unscrew the girl,
so I beat him to the punch
and gulped a big glass of fuck you:
my square jaw set;
my Adam’s apple bobbing
like a minor toady.
It was a bravura performance:
not a side-eye in the house.
Ten years after the big game, they all know
I can’t pass like I used to.
But I can strut.