Race Against the Clock

I hold my breath
and wait for you
to make it through
the rest of Youth.

You are so perfect
just right now:
No major fouls,
fumbles, or rejects.

A few yellow cards
squared your shoulders,
made you older,
kept you on your guard,

but nothing to get
you kicked out
or down for the count,
nothing to regret.

You are up by eight,
but my eyes are locked
on the ticking clock
willing it to a faster rate--

before it's too late
and the other squad
can ride roughshod,
pull up and compensate.

Let the streamers unstring,
let the game end
with you ahead,
when the buzzer rings.

Let the other guys
knock down the chairs,
sit dazed and stare,
throw themselves and cry,

while you are covered
in Gatorade,
and accolades,
and ride upon my shoulders.