Not poetry... I'm no poet. Just broken prose, really.

In the beginning, they’re wonderful, the cheerleaders.

Soul pumping inspiration that sings to your psyche

until one day, perhaps at 8 pm

on a cloudy Wednesday evening

when you realize

you’re the lone player on the field

the only one carrying the ball, or washing

an old man’s soiled buttocks, and

not for the first time that day, as

the phone rings and the business needs

tending and the kitchen needs cleaning

and the laundry needs washing, and

they fade into background noise,

the cheerleaders;

and you wish,

wish

for another player to carry the ball

just one more yard

a tag team player, even, to

leap the rope in the nick of time

and high five your broken body

so you can roll out of the ring

gasping, bruised

but still breathing, thank God,

and rest, just rest, breathing

one long breath after another

long enough, just long enough

to go one more round.