Boy in Section C

T.R. Poulson




One of my friends is a statue, a wolf
at Mackay Stadium.  Not the wolf that howls,
nor the wolf that glares down from the rock
they share, and growls, my friend looks away
from the field, out the gate.  He stares
over Reno at the homes and dorms.  He knows
me.  My mom says statues are cold

and unmoving.  But I think they talk about
us.  They know the players and fans, and smile
for the Pack when it wins.  My statue-friend
looks over the growling one's back, away
from the howling one's noise.  He sees
a tackle acing a test, a guard hiding
some juice, a receiver's twisted knee, a tight end's

four girlfriends, none of whom know
of the others.  The statue-wolf sees the new
football my uncle gave me, watches me
throw it with my team, hears my brother say
I run like a girl.  He tells the other two,
the howling one and the growling one, that I
someday will be a wolf.