Scarab

The pad hanging out from the left shoulder,

A scarab’s elytron, white and hard, figuring flight

Under an October sky

Crimson leaves not ready to fall

The boys line up again

The quarterback slaps and calls signs

Hoping for offsides

Waiting

Snap

The line hits hard, pushing upwards, sideways, sometimes back

With boys, almost men, behind them trying to remember where to put their feet

The quarterback pulls hard back, holding the ball out,

The player takes it

Running through a gap

Across green marked with white lines

He summons speed

Taking blows, left and right

A dark mass pulling the field toward him

Knees reaching higher

And then my son,

The boy I carried in a backpack under the sun,

His legs dangling, his weight all mine

Before my voice fell below his feet

Runs at him, runs hard, runs fast, and launches himself

Striking the other boy’s middle

They fall back together

As the whistle blows

My son gets up,

his shoulder pad exposed

I watch his gait,

His arms rising above his head

And behind the grid of his facemask

A smile.