April mornings without pollen,
the girls knock about a ball
in their shock-pink soccer duds,
hovering anxiously over
elbowed foes sent sprawling
inadvertently in the fray.
This lacks the fang-clacking of boys.
For girls the game is the thing,
its rules to be followed
spiritually, pure of heart,
while boys strain to push out
the envelope, strict constructionists
in the pursuit of outcomes,
they have no sense of fairness,
only winning, which in olden times
would bring a scalp on a stick,
not some be-ribboned gewgaw
from a purchasing committee
made up of housewives.
I prefer the gentle grace of girls
intent on not embarrassing
themselves or others.