The pain
pulses
through my peds.
I can’t remember
why I stepped/
onto the ice
and snow,
then
into the gently flowing
melted
river.
Was it to prove 
that I could do it?
Was it a memory
of polar bear dips past?
Was it a beach,
and I’s just gotsta?
Or was it just/
to experience the shock
of being able/
to feel
again?
Ice shards pierce my soles,/
but my soul feels even more/
complete thus unshod.
My other temple/
is a place where she and I/
have gone together
Or
My other temple/
is a place where she and I/
worshiped together.
When she calls me/
“Loverboy”,/
but she doesn’t call me/
for hours
and days
and weeks
and months on end,
isn’t she/
just making/
a mockery/
of me?
The silence /
of my peaceful lakeshore beach walk/
is shattered/
by the roar of their
unmufflered
ATV machine.
Why should I deny them/
their pleasure?/
Because it ain’t natural./
It just ain’t natural.
I don’t fathom what/
the big deal is. I walk on/
water every year.
The question is not/
which outfit I shall wear/
on Super Bowl Sunday/
in Arizona.
Which garb will make me/
sweat the most
under the blazing
Phoenix sun.
Which team will have
my heart
and my throat,
and that, loudly,
the first Super February day.
That Super choice will be made
by forces far outside
my control:
Legion of Boom versus
The Receivers.
Wilson’s legs versus
Aaron’s calf.
Clay + AJ versus
The Line.
Beast Mode versus
his heir apparent.
The exuberant Peter Pan boy-man verses
“Hide Your Mic, Mike!”
Green and Gold versus
“I can’t even name those colors!”,
Lambeau Loud versus
The CLink Quake.
No, that Super choice will be made
by the two warrior groups,
two Sundays prior,
and whoever is there,
that garb shall I wear,
loving both,
cheering for them
(because the Pats
and Luck
suck.
“You mad, Bro?”)
But the question,
the conundrum,
the true choice,
is much more difficult,
poignant,
heart-felt,
painful:
The NFC Championship looms tomorrow.
One team is my birthright.
Generations
of Lake Michigan water fed.
Proclaimed on my license plate frame,
I am an NFL Owner.
A folk hero full back leaves
the “S” off his name.
My father and grandfather
attended the Ice Bowl.
My dad met Nitschke.
My mother met Lambeau.
I call my father
after every score.
I cheered for them
in the Snow Bowl.
I have Brett’s autograph.
My daughter threatened a “12”
who swiped my cheesehead
during the “Fail Mary” game,
the same cheesehead which rolls
when my top is down,
up I-15.
The Packers are my legacy.
The other team,
adopted,
is infused in my blood.
How could I help it?
I was drinking Cascade clear water
for more than 25 years,
proudly waving my 12 flag,
having my number retired,
watching my children grow up
in the Evergreen State,
Largent 80 and
Alexander 37
jersey clad,
sneaking across the street
to watch the games
at friends’ houses
on restricted Sabbath Days
(did we make a mistake?),
in the bar yelling “BEAST MODE! GRAB IT!”
5 yards before the
back leap into the end zone,
writing a defense of
the LOB,
“LOB BABY!”
and RS 25
defense,
wearing a ‘Hawks/Sounders minion hat,
knowing I’m a 12.
What garb will I wear?
Who will I show for?
The choice is clear.
I know where my heart is.
But, underneath,
my second team will
be repped.
Because, no matter the outcome,
I win.
Update after the Seahawks pulled off an incredible come-from-behind overtime win
The voice of experience
has taught me otherwise, now:
When your team is way ahead,
and implodes at the end
to loose,
you feel bad.
Sick.
Like you got kicked in the stomach.
And it will take phone calls
to your kids,
and a video
of your friends celebrating
to make you feel
a
little
better.
But,
no matter what,
you can hate
the Patriots.
GO HAWKS!
When I gazed into her eyes/
I sighed,/
and was bereft/
and denied/
the chance/
to further dance/
and twirl/
and give the birthday girl/
her daughter’s window scraper.
I did send you a/
picture of my heart. That’s art./
But you don’t like it.
I was scum, full of/
deception, bad. So? Tell me/
something I don’t know.
OR
I was scum, full of /
deception. So? Now tell me/
something I don’t know.