covered in post-it notes
chasing the dragon
the punt return,
no more phone calls, football season is over;
Johnny’s left the basement
The moot point & the point/discharged
smoking guns & wild turkeys
bullfights, postage stamps & grieving wives
we wrote the lines, drew the lines, inhaled them,
blotted & besotted
punctuated with violent intent
the last full stop a crimson droplet
running down a wall to the end zone.
Postscripts plastered on white boards & fridge doors,
The matador gouged
The wide-receiver gone too far . . .
the gentlemen won the cold war,
gnawing on a president’s skull
in a glorious graveyard;
listening to the anguished howls
of the lost & soon-to-be found.
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