This is my Ode to Cones

What a glorious word it is--"Cones!"

Shouts the coach

And it sounds like a chord

C,E,G; G,B,D

C-O-N-E-S

P.E.

Is over. That's what "cones" means

Proceeded by a beautiful whistle

That freezes the bloody field of battle for a soccer ball.

I'm stuck between the cones

A makeshift goal I cannot guard

A makeshift prison I cannot escape

Until I hear the word "Cones!"

Cones is a code

Which means pick up my tormenters

By their plastic orange necks

Twist

Those wretched holes around my 

Wrist

And carry them back to the dark cave of despair

Where they will wait until fourth period tomorrow.

I'm put between the cones

But I'm bad at protecting them

They keep me between the cones

Because I'm even worse at everything else.

Fifty minutes of boredom that can't be boring

Due to the gnawing anxiety that the ball could come hurtling at any second

And I'm the only one whose hands are allowed to touch it

Due to the fault in the universe

That I'm going to fail

That I'm going to dissappoint

That I'm going to let the world down after trying so hard

But "cones!" means

That I'm going

            going

            gone

From my post

That goal that I guard

Gather the cones

Like coach yelled from the yard

Across the field

Which with tears is scarred

And back to class

Where the universe makes sense once more.

"Cones!" says the coach

And when we bring them he puts them away in a big orange bag.

Cones!

What a beautiful word!