They match the teams by weight.

Men and a handful of women

line up at the rope.

Waverly wrestles Cayuga Hose,

but the Zimmermans win

the war—a family whose six

veterans know how to tug through

the worst of New York’s snow.

When ages 0–10 tug rope,

they copy their elders’ pull,

banding on either end

of the bright flag hung

just above the ground.

“Dig in!” the grownups yell.

Children wave and muster

strength with calls from

the crowd—holler and clap,

no matter which side wins.

Arcadia manned by imps;

parents hurdle stands and fence

for hugs at the winners’ ground:

T’burg Fire ribbons each kid.

Baseball caps flash the names

of neighboring factions,

urge Culver Lanes or The Spot

on us. We shuffle here

and there. The MC says, “If you

hadna came, we wouldna all

been together,”

as day tugs night

across our heads and shoulders

and we wind

our precarious conference home.