The 50-Yard Line

I saw in the seventh grade

standing in a ling at Six Flags

your gold-streaked hair

I called you Oro

and now look at us.

My hair is edged the same black as yours

I call you Onyx in my writing.

I am Pheo:

the warrior with her nose

buried in a notebook.

I write of the battles

we will fight together –

How foolish! I can't

seem to win this battle against

myself, whoever I am

not that it matters

to you, of course.

Your mind is occupied with other matters:

Video games, perhaps

the solo you'll be playing tomorrow

other things you'll be doing

over the weekend. Not

the shy redhead who sits here,

in the band room, so

carefully putting down her feelings

in verse, trying to ignore you practicing

not half a football field away.

I do wish you would

speak to me, but of

course, that won't happen

anytime soon.