Lance Newman Thanks Here’s my cranky voice raised up
in cheer two
thousand miles from your chorus.
I thought I'd send a blue word
from this blue
duplex in (save us) Utah
about mercantile holidays.
You know the score.Trust me to bitch. Andy’s on
his third six
now, right? Detroit or Dallas
sopping up Green Bay or . . . who knows?
Andy hoots
like it’s double-shutout over-
time. Your toothy grins’re tacked
on for smiles.Out here, busses jam the lot
at Smokey’s
Surf ‘n’ Turf—Civitan groups
from Provo, Bismarck, Grand Junction.
My neighbor’s
kids throw donuts and wheelies
on their mopeds in the vacant
lot cattycorner.Has an airborne cousin puked
on Grandpa,
come down in a bawling heap?
Did Uncle Peter unsheath his
mandolin,
frown picking while you all rolled
your eyes, lids shut like ecstacy?
Did Meg pass out?Did Brio yank the carcass
to the floor
yet? Growl in the jellied salt
gravy? Nuzzle for giblets
abandoned
in the lacy ribcage? Did Jo
bang out choir-summons on the black,
black baby grand?Did the rug rats break a lamp?
Did Charley
throw his bottle at the screen
when Pittsburgh intercepted?
Or Dallas?
I haven’t watched a game since
New Year’s when Montana slipped
out of the blitz.Hang on a sec, I’ll flip on my
black-and-white.
The last tenant left it and this
desk. Third and goal. Packers up ten.
The Packers?
When did they heat up? Pass a beer.
Kick Andy, Jo’s playing Go Down
Moses at half time.