Saved by the Bell, a poem of hearts racing

      In me was the hope of an underdog. Comebacks
      have always been en vogue—like that Miracle on Ice.
      one of many prophecies about the fleeting
      end of the Second World. But here by our garden
      in this Third, with its flickering splendor
      and virtue, came blessed omens. Here,
      I returned a prodigal suitor
      with a last minute shot against
      the clock. There was me hoping for
      that underdog story over bowls
      of hot soup along Aguirre.
      There we were red like
      embers—like flares
      against the darkness
      announcing our need
      for a rescue.

But the game was still rigged, and
we weren’t saved by any bell.
I was just glad the Referee was
on our side. And in my corner,
was me, an Atlas bearing the weight
of many defeats. Yet you came in like
a hat trick—saturating the dead-channel
sky like a technicolor herald of victories
in my, now our, path. Expectedly
befitting you, the miracle
you always were and are.

      Then after, you weaved through Zapote
      to celebrate like a new champion
      with cards over sangria. I’m
      grateful for the latter, for the
      sweet slumber it brought you. From
      it, came supernatural wonder. There you
      dared to dream that in me
      was shelter and respite.

            There, my patience
            and stubbornness each rewarded
            with the mercy of your return and
            the irony of you—your pleasantness,
            your fondness, your beauty, your soul,
            and your fire.

                  There, a man saw a future
                  coming before the vows.
                  There, a man finally
                  heard the starting gun.