Game Day

Game Day

I’ve grown immune to dimension

a place enhanced by technology and pictures of tectonic plates

or smartphones smarter than those women who clutch them and who text

their bemoaned singularity and sobriety

even while bar hanging on a Sunday afternoon in places with multiple flat screen

televisions that display various sporting events all of which, regardless of team or event,

prompt commentary, jeers, cheers, swears and breathholding

from the team jersey bedecked boys they arrived with

as if any of those earnest exertions could influence an outcome

any more than their tight shirts – the ones that make their boobs, no matter how small

P O P –

and  their carefully coiffed hair can get them an engagement ring

from one of these lunkheads they’ve gone steady with for 5 years who’s yelling at the TV.

All is lost when a player is sacked or tackled:

shots are poured and gulped. Perspective is gone before 4 PM.

They too have sustained a hit, a loss of yards;

romance is gone even as they reluctantly follow the cheers,

dutifully put down their phones and clap carefully

so as to not ruin Saturday’s manicure.

The boys call for another round, yell “Fuck!” a lot,

fist bump, stomp their feet and slap each other on the ass

while yelling “WA HOO!”

My search for today’s dimension in context is solved.

This is NOT that which I seek.

It’s time to go.