Now it’s all about preservation–
holding on to as much of today as
we can grasp with foam fingered gloves,
boo from sidelines at each visitor pass,
frozen unused football fields of the past.

Sirens eerie wails duck and weave,
each failed attempt an air raid defense.
Upsets baffle the home team fans,
restless during the match, game, set.

A tall grass-lined baseball diamond deforms,
no one will keep trimming the base line.
Each day we’re in the strike zone, but
spitting on balls is a thing of the past.

The pitch is dried up weeds, as goalies
await penalty shots, turf stiffening
from sprays, homemade chemical raids,
crossing the end line a thing of the past.

We wait, incubate.
Spectators now, we
externally gestate,
as soul becomes embalmed.

Champ Embaume by Pascal

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