For years I’d kept ahead of him on laps
around the track between his soccer games.
Today my son blew past me. Aging claims
its wins, but this one—sweetness in collapse—
alone among the losses I’ve been handed
felt less like grief than love. And when the screen
lit up tonight with Pixar’s saccharine
and swelling horns, I sniveled, if I’m candid,
my legs quite ready to concede some points.
But then the movie snob in me awoke
and pierced the Randy Newman score; he spoke:
This kitsch won’t do. Tomorrow–damn my joints–
the blushing sun will prick the morning’s skin
and find me training for my comeback win.
Note: This sonnet was featured in Next Line, Please.