Janet Fricke Combs

I’m not a fan of football games, per se;
I tune into the Superbowl for ads.
The touchdown dances make me look away;
A jeering, prancing dude in shoulder pads
Will make me cringe, embarrassed. Where’s the sport
In shoving triumph down another’s throat?
(And on the football field, or track, or court
Did not your mother warn you, never gloat?)
We almost turned the game off—fifty one
Was not a contest. Not at first. It seemed
One team was trounced; the outcome done and done—
But then the sportsmanship of which we’ve dreamed
Was on display. The comeback from behind
Was brave and bold; the pure Olympic kind.

The minivan is not a sexy car.
Its boxy shape—no matter what the make—
Will scream “suburban carpool.” If you are
A lover of design, there’s more heartbreak
In roof racks that are tailor-made to take
The family clamshell on a trip that’s sure
To prove to be a mile-by-mile mistake
Set to the Chevy-Chase “Vacation” score.
But if you’ve lived a couple decades more
Than thirty, you’ll take comfort over style
In every feature, from each sliding door
To easy fold-down seats. And every mile
Will be a sweet dream fashioned in Japan.
Come ride in my Sienna minivan.

“Mary Poppins” introduced me to
The suffragettes when I was five years old.
But they were cast a bit like crazies who
Neglected their own children. It foretold
The issues women faced. We face them still.
Since 1913, our collective voice
Has risen to a pitch that some call shrill
In their attempts to quell the quest for choice.
But step by step, our footfalls will resound
With purpose, all across this fractured nation:
Freedoms, once attained, must not rebound
With one election or administration.
I won’t succumb to hate or bitter fears;
Hope’s the cadence marching in my ears.