I don’t like losing.

If I close my eyes and concentrate
      very, very hard
The little molecules that you and I are
            line up neatly in a row
Inert, like helium balloons
                  floating solitarily away from the bleachers
at a sticky hot football game in May.

Of course, they say that I am not losing,
             not really;
I am gaining somebody new.
I should float on, enjoy the sunset,
      the touchdowns, the popcorn, the hotdogs, and
all the things that make life so simple, you’d be an idiot not to soak in the moment.

You get a birds’ eye view among the clouds.
The college student wearing a foam finger, cheering hoarsely for the quarterback who will never remember her name in the hall,
The old boys in the stands, mingling in a tight bunch of insecurity, comparing their latest daycations, cars, raises,
The precocious child at a corner, tying a pebble to his balloon to prevent it from flying away.
He hates losing too.



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