FOOTBALL FLAGS IN FLARE
When all the flags are flying high, and every store adorned,
will Bulldog fans of orange pride agree or feel forlorned?
Will I stand back and view their flare and feel my job is done,
or will my love for basketball support his team, my son?
The dead of head for football clout agrees to fly week’s end
for games of oblong ball that’s played outdoors-arena trend.
Then I, because my sons prefer the ball inflated round
this view awoke my dander bad, I vow to seed new ground.
The flags should fly for everyone, as well as special few.
A lot of calls, to make at last, my bursa rawed by shoe.
In haste, I rub a few of them in ways I did not shine.
To change traditions old and fast, plays havoc with my time.
With pride my stubbornness corrals desire to move ahead.
I gain new pounds, I lose more friends, the journey gives me dread.
But players all compete for school and should be treated same.
The girls, the boys should see them fly, whoever plays the game.
When I was young and new to town of football love that’s here,
I did not win the contest call or even rate a cheer.
My boss presented me cartoon and picture guillotine
of woman’s head locked inside I know he wished was me.
Then underneath the picture, words in print he put my name
and underlined them twice, “she said that football's just a game.”
He signs my paycheck. Whoa! I coward down the hall to see
if I’m employed or if my final check is ’waiting me?
He looks my way. His face is red, unhappy I can tell.
“You work for me so while at work, my business you will sell.”
With much relief I near my desk and quietly sit down.
I have a job, I love my son, the flags should fly around.
Around the town for these who play the flags should flare for all.
The orange flare, for autumn’s sports, should fly all year on wall.
I see a mutiny if I continue working here.
I vow to close my mouth of this, but who for them will cheer?
This orange tint, an awful shade, and ugly hue to wear;
for me it pales my face like ghost. My heart is in a tear.
My sons both feel support while they contend on Bulldog teams,
to watch them play enhances life as chest explodes at seams.
And me, because my sons prefer the ball inflated round,
with attitudes I have annoyed, we need some common ground.
Our town is nice, just football pride, and pros reside elsewhere.
My sons are gone, the orange flare, now flies in days of pair.
© 2004 by Carol Dee Meeks