Run the tape and
fetch the chains
we stay in place
our yards don’t stretch

the slack it droops
between their hands
we see it sag
“it didn’t make”

they say with rue
regret belied
by smiling lips
but when it’s time

to chart their run
the chains are taut
“first down,” they cry
the crowd goes wild

who stays up there
inside that box
where tapes are viewed
behind the glass

whose glare is mute
and blinds us all
with Midas’s curse
with bread and show

and forty acres
and birth and mirth
and house and hearse