This is my Ode to Cones
What a glorious word it is--"Cones!"
Shouts the coach
And it sounds like a chord
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
Those wretched holes around my
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
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.
What a beautiful word!