Over Me

Don't think for one minute
I'm their ball. Hands off.

Don't let them run me
anywhere, skirting opponents,

jostling, fighting
for the skin of me.

I don't need to be a goal post,
either. A temporary object

of desire, a future fantasy,
arms held up in a state

of endless hallelujah.
I can take the weight

of scrimmages, and sliding
cleats and scraped knees,

the bloodsplash
and resistant MRSA.

Field, make me a yard line.
Just one of many,

or a hash mark, or a number.
Some indicator to be of use

to spectators and players, both.
Make me anything that everyone

would need to make it through
the basics of the game.