Gracefully Bowing Out Tonight

I'm tired. I'm copping out.

Here's an appetizer of poetry I've written previously. Buon Gusto!

One Long Fighting Irish Pass

For Robert

Brown eyes fixed on a Sylvania Superset.
Players in blue, white and gold storm an Indiana field,
appearing in our living room courtesy of NBC.

Rob's eyes don't flicker in amusement like mine.
His Irish fought high odds to get within a touchdown.
He stares without mercy,
soaks in each play,
winces at every takedown,
hopes for every Irish runner who
breaks the Eagle's line,
every Irish tight end who
break's the Eagle line.

He'd love to see Boston College sacked.
I'd love to see his face if Boston was.

Enter McLoughlin, Irish senior quarterback.
A career high this game in passing yards gained,
his team a touchdown away from the win.
He cries, the ball is snapped,
Red and white uniforms crash his blue and gold line.
Boston covers his vision, but he sees.
"Oh well, what the hell," says his casual body
as he throws the bomb.
Sixty yards away the ball falls
among a lone Irish trailed by two eagles.
He dives up,
and falls on his back, the ball in his hands.
Irish take first down twenty yards from the goal.

Three plays later, Notre Dame leads by one.
Rob's brown eyes were as bright as his smile.

Even when The Boston Eagles drove to field goal range,
Even when #14 kicked the ball, split the uprights,
Even when Boston won and the Fighting Irish lost,
Rob's eyes were as bright as his smile.

His Irish won.
(c)1993

The Morning After

A lukewarm cup of coffee
yesterday's newspaper on the kitchen table
spread like piles of raked autumn leaves
blown over Maple Street.

Just one empty chair
faces the window over the driveway.

Nothing to remind anyone
of last night's overcooked ribs.
nothing in the morning
like the steamed avocados,
or baked spread yams
or the screaming
the slap
the silence.

Just another Grandmother
by the sink a morning later.

Not touching a lukewarm cup of coffee.
Leaving yesterday's newspaper,
memories of wind blown autumn leaves,
on a quiet maple street.
(c)1994


Waiting For You

Let me welcome you
but first
I gotta move my tail
move my tail
or lose it lose it
Bing! goes the bell

I'm off like a shot
never
seen a faster bullet
than me
racing for rigitoni
move it,
another duce
Move it, move it!

Dang the bad coffee!
Fly! Another pot on.
Can't you hurry up?
Lady Jess waits for tea
on table ten.
Coffee pot fills
hurry, hurry!

Deadly waiter with a dine-out card
Hold still and transmit, you damn credit card!

Where was I, oh yeah, there
Let me welcome you,
but first...
(c)1995