We know we need to eat and drink, survive
Our weather’s rigors, somehow reproduce.
We’ve learned (though not too well) to get along,
Form social orders, minimize abuse.

But what the devil spawned competition?
The oldest athletes raced, threw javelins,
Wrestled, shot arrows—sport reeked of mission—
Useful stuff—not ice dance, nothing feminine.

Ancient games? Strength, ability to kill.
Designed, no doubt, to hone sharp wartime skills.
(2/13/14)

Our Kim’s promoting charities,
And Gillian’s busy learning law;
While Lisa works the dark, dank, docks,
Patricia works so hard she’s sore.

That furry-biked East-Asian lass
Has disappeared—her muscles flawed.
Andrea’s got a job, alas!
They’re seldom here, those girls that awed.

We miss their skin, their shapely shorts—
Excitement’s drained down at the courts.
(8/24/12)

Here, the penniless
Contest with multimillionaires
And, often, win.

Here the obscene shouts
Reflect immense geography:
French, Spanish, Portuguese,
Mandarin, German, Thai,
Korean, Yiddish, even Romanian—
And, of course, English
From time to time.

Here, octogenarians,
Unwilling to recognize
The toll of years,
Insist on their pathetic
Limping lunges,
As if the end of play
Were equal to
The end of life.

Here, the shtarkes
(“Strong ones,”
For those without the language)
Reveal their mythic speed,
Skill, power, guile
In every weekend tournament.

Here, passionate disputes,
(Enflaming armies
Across the whole disheveled Earth),
Erupt—the trigger?
Bad line calls.

And here, sets end
With that affectionate
Slap of hands
Signifying
“Good set!
Thanks for the game.”
(11/23/11)

A billion-two offered for our Dodgers—
Our storied ancient team (dem Bums! bleed Blue!)—
From Chinese sovereign funds. Asian codgers
Want to buy our team—how can this be true?

Dodger dogs replaced by dim sum, soybeans—
Rice wine instead of beer—tailgate parties
Featuring kung pau? Come on! How extreme
Can world trade be? Will moneymaking art

Trump tradition? Free trade? Dear to most hearts!
But Chinese ownership? That really smarts!
(9/10/11)

Much evidence reveals that not all cures
Depend on pills or surgery. Sometimes
You think yourself to peace—soft breath
Provokes a meditative trance, sublime.

Sometimes that stupid driving lunk disjoints—
Can make your head explode—quick therapy:
That raucous shout drops BP thirty points—
Supports your breath, admits serenity.

Not all cathartics need be laxatives—
But be sure your window’s closed—that lunkhead
Might see red and, brained like a rusty sieve,
Jam on the brakes, end your cure, shoot you dead.
(8/29/11)

Juke left, then right, and tear off twenty yards;
Hit the curve ball, jump, standing, three feet up,
And straight you’re praised by all our pious bards,
Enriched by nature’s choice—selected crop.

Your genes and harsh devotion earn your place—
A pantheon of gods we all adore.
We pay whatever’s asked to share your space,
Devoted to the team, we scream, we roar.

But here’s the part I’ve never understood
Why do we hate the fans of other teams?
What rift in nature’s scheme skews our manhood
And turns us into vandals, thugs—extreme

At loss, who, sometimes, grow so mindless ill,
That even when you win, we rage and kill.
(8/21/11)

The other day he pointed out to me,
With pride, his new court shoes, stunning blue, pure
(His sober features arch, suffused with glee)—
Not navy, teal—but blazing bright azure!

Festooned with scores of patterned holes, those sneaks,
Though heavenly, portend athletic threat—
Those holes, however cute, prevent foul reek
By venting fumes, evaporating sweat.

He flexed, he pranced, displayed uncommon stride,
And fashion’s pinnacle—laces untied!
(6/29/11)

Melissa (although we all call her Mel)
Guards the gate down at our Marina Club.
Her ready smile and pungent wit dispel
The gloom we often bear, facing the drudge

Of exercise. Today she wore a top
Featuring that phat Sixers star of yore.
I chided her. She tossed her ebon mop—
“This was my brother’s gift to me before

I turned fifteen. Look, it still fits”—though taut
(The truth be known), across her loveliness.
“I’ve always liked his play and never bought
The tales they told of him and his noxious

Entourage.” Heart’s delight—ultimate fun—
That agile, crafty thug, Al Iverson.
                        (2/14/11)

When you’ve grown too old
For movies and TV—
When the BBC News at Five
And the promise of a ballgame
Are all that’s left—
We watch appalling collateral damage,
Scores blown up
Coming home from prayer,
And Somali pirates,
And Red-shirt riots
In Bangkok.

Stories fragrantly,
Flagrantly flavored,
Tartly seasoned
By wily bankers
Selling (at great profit)
Obscene assets
Designed to fail

But, still, the games remain.
We watch as impossibly
Corpulent
Pitchers give up
Five run leads.

We watch as four tall,
Overpaid players
Stand frozen,
While the star-crossed fifth
Tries to do
What cannot be done alone.

We yearn for inflated spirit,
Some psychiatric lift—
However artificial—
Some lofty joy
Distilled from our home team’s
Victory!

But, alas, there’s no air
Left.
          (4/25/10)

With the nausea of bilious loss.
Each next day, sport-page news repaired my soul—
Miracle closing shots part the sea, glossed
My heart, saved, once more, from treacherous shoals.

Then, two days ago, I, again, blasphemed—
Shut off the damned TV—seven point four
Seconds left—down one—and the other team
Had the ball. No hope, right? Wrong! Kobe scored!

So what’s that worth to basketball’s fierce wars?
My juju conjured those wins! My weird lore
Unleashed the stunned crowd’s delirious roar!
I want a three year deal; with options for
Two years more.
                    (1/4/10)