On Football
During autumn there is no chance for peaceful hot wings
amidst the screams of “I’ve waited all week for this!”
and I wonder if the chickens said the same.
I order a steak because cows have been abandoned by football.
I compare the uniforms at the bar, their complementary colors
and names for God, to my authentic James Wright jersey
with the tattered right elbow and collar frayed by so much indecision.
My team colors clash.
And I am as bored as these passive girlfriends
sipping soda and clucking like pullets.
They’re not touching their wings.
I ask the waitress if they’re showing
the Ashberry/Collins game. She says “soda pop?” I fall in love.
She probably pulls for Collins. We break up.
When the Bears score I cheer
because Chicago belongs to Sandburg
and by clapping I finally feel the ripping at my shoulders
that must signal manhood and I drink to civilization from a straw
while my arms are dipped in honey barbecue.