Jouer: Games of Chance and Skill

Weaving her
More or less Futbol-shaped
Bump through New York streets

She assumes that
The moment which
Fathered it

Arose
Not in their nest of banked
Bedclothes and soft words

But a good ten
Or fifteen minutes
After

When summoned
To play soccer,
And sweating

In the icy breath
Of January dusk,
Her palm laid

Against the insistent bark
Of a wintering tree,
She feels rather than sees

the ball stream by
(Stealthy and silent
As an idea)

Past
Her surprised
and ineffective feet

And hears his exultant
Half laugh-half shout
Goal!

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