I haven't slept much
these past few nights.
I think of you while
I try to sleep:
Of taking you & your kids
bobsledding In January;
of taking you all to
the circus, and maybe
catchin' an elephant
go mad;
of holding you in
the rain at 2am.
I tell this to the guard.
I also tell him I need
some iron in my blood system,
that my sugar is low, and
my asthma is buggin’ me.
He doesn't care.
I say, "This game is unlike
anything I'm used to
on Earth.
Like, who's the quarterback?
Where's the goalpost?
Shouldn't there be a small-dog
crawling through plastic-tunnels
somewhere?"
The guard just grins, and
hands me a cousin to a
badminton racket &
a four-foot serrated steak knife.
Then boots me into the arena.
Nobody cheers for me–
but they do cheer when
my opponent, some 8ft troglodyte
in yellow speedos, charges me,
armed with the matching-set
of utensils to mine.
I only wish for a good last-line,
something clever, something bypassing
responsibility, something
anti-Patrick Henry.
Something like the hood– I read about
before my excommunication– with a
criminal bio clotted with counterfeiting,
domestic abuse, DUl's, dope-dealing,
theft, who says to his wife, before
being sent away to prison for a
couple yrs- Not, I love you or
Kiss the kids for me- but,
"Go buy me ten cartons
of cigarettes."
Yeah, something near that.