Coach would whistle freeze and leave
us, strained mid-twist, to sweat.

He played favorites. He had
no favorites. We did suicides

for breakfast and then a drill
with rope called “mayhem.”
In the locker room, we compared
welts, strawberries, pus,
and how after a concussion

memory returns from the distance
even while the dumb body plays away
without a name. We revered
him. One practice after a filmstrip

on jock itch, we cracked wise
so he whistled us to run

barefoot to the canal and back.
He died suddenly. Stayed dead.
For his memorial, we stood
in the rain around a burn barrel.