Game On

I love your shoulders.

Making the shot.
Holding your niece.
Rising above the pew.
Shoulders of a well rounded man.

Rippled like topography on a map.
The first to be asked to help move
A piano or desk or desperate friend.

And now
from behind.
Comfortable against the afghan
on the back of my couch.

Game on.

Watching something with
jerseys and a ball
and a different kind of back,
this one named Adrian Peterson.

Your arms reach back
and lock behind your head
as you shout to a player
who can’t hear you
and could never appreciate
the soft skin
on the back of your neck
the way I do.

From behind
I kiss that skin
I trace my hands
across your shoulders
and down, down, down
your chest.

Game on.