8.

XO

Timeout!

The whistle blows.

A bead of sweat rolls down my chin,
shivers to my thigh,
succumbs to the floor. 

My shoelace is untied again.

Even in dreams, the scoreboard maintains
its dull illusion of truth.
And objectively speaking, I'm behind.

But my coach won't take this
lying down.

She jabs at a clipboard
filled with X's and O's. 

I dutifully look,
trying to make sense of the plan. 

The whistle blows a second time;
sweat dissolves to wakefulness. 

I am lying in my bed
at the mercy of dawn,

thinking about the meaning
of an X and an O,

and thinking about how-- 

with time's assist

I could throw myself

an ellipsis 

and simply

. . .