Manning the Line

The stale steam rises,
From twenty-two smokestacks.
Factory football,
Manninig the line.

Crouching colossus,
I face
A hormone-fueled,
Muscular ball of hate.
He springs from his stance,
I retreat, mirror his advance.

My arms, springs coiled;
His first ploy already foiled,
He cuts back, repositions,
for a new angle of attack.
Shuffling leviathan of nimble feet,
Tearing up turf as we violently meet.

He reaches out to
Tear me to the ground,
knock me down,
then run around.

Coiled springs fire
ONE
TWO
THREE
Blows jar me from neck to gut,
The last one sends my foe to his butt.

Averting the crisis:
The taste of triumph.
Factory football.
Back to the line.

Steam rises...