a patch of earth to call your own

He thought the changing room was the answer.

Questions about himself
laid out on a cold tile floor.
Hiding in a cubicle
because the body, toned and bruised,
wasn't the right body.

They all knew he hadn't found it yet.

Outside, laced up, facing up
to the truth:
he didn't want this,
but it was the only place to be,
wind in the hair, free.

The answer lay outside those crisp white lines.

He wanted them
wanted to be them.
Wrong in all the right places.
It wasn't the jersey,
but the removing it after a game.

He wanted to watch from the sidelines, still part of the team.