Winningest coach gets sacked
for a few hundred cups of spit,

striated, cavernous chests
on boys who should, statistically,

be long-haired and dimpled,
tobacco stains on fingernails

grown long to pick a guitar,
pump out those three-chord

blessings, the ones that
make us strain and grunt

and strive while the wrestler,
the jock, spends his nights creating

kinesthetic harmonies, strumming,
muting, plucking out six-minute

symphonies we know nothing of
in our culture of dribbles

and dunks where there’s always
a teammate to pass the ball to,

teacher to blame when we
lock hands, flee the mat.