Who won? I said.
The game’s tomorrow, he said.
And I became the snail I always was,
crossing the field in my helmet.
But I’d given it my all,
while the plane arced on its way
to a landing, when I overheard
the woman behind us say
I was gathering wildflowers to make a wreath
to lay on my mother’s grave when my son
fell off a mountain in Italy
and I felt such joy over the unknown
outcome of her words
I was not ashamed,
for I can feign interest
in the world, just as she
in that great green meadow
must have.

Source: Poetry January 2017

Mary Ruefle

Biography
More poems by this author

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