Holy Sonnet 7

The horn goes off before my final shot
reaches the goal, the whistle blows, the game
is lost, the other team pours onto the ice,
their gloves and sticks flying, and above them Death
(the announcer) laughs, already picking
apart my stats, pointing out weaknesses
in my game, tweeting about how I’ll be
forgotten as, all done now, I retire.
Yet as I unlace my skates and peel off
my jersey for the last time, the anger
melts away, the all-consuming pressure
leaves my bones, my soul relaxes, I break
into a grin, with nothing left but love
and laughter that wipes out each loss, every sin

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