I measured success by empties left in the grass,
And stains on my shirt sleeves,
And feathers lofting across backyards,
Not just mine, but others' as well.

Failure was three,
yellow or red,
slipped inside, then pulled from within.
Same three from weeks behind,
Same three weekend next.

Failure was a pop in your ear,
and a kick to your shoulder,
And a straggling descent,
Just out of sight,
Just out of reach.

Finer is success
with its taste in your mouth,
And smoke twisting up
From a fire like you're Abel,
As you give thanks
and regards.