We’re old now, just three of us (since Wally
Died). Two hundred forty years sit here—deaf,
Half blind—playing out our brittle folly,
Possessed. Each Monday night the host plays chef
And cobbles up a half-time meal. “Ah, shit!”
Sam cries, dropping a pan, stoking our glee.
We used to vie to serve the best tidbits—
But now buy pre-cooked stuff.1 What frantic need
Propels us? We don’t drink as much, but still
Shout out “Pot’s light!” when kick-off looms. We root
Noisily, though hardly know which teams flail
There in peaceful war, nor do we care—boot
Still prods us. Perhaps we stymie grinning
Death through our delight in sometimes winning.
(9/24/07)
1 Except Sam, of course, who clings, furiously, to tradition.