Finally, flat screen bar TVs
have found their purpose
in the triumvirate championships
of ice, grass, and hella shiny wood.
A veritable Bermuda triangle
for the unrooting—
we of no tribe,
whose mouths know not of hoots
nor of communal groans
as we bemoan the infestation
our bars turned
into euro fraternities,
our small talk
a Herculean Labour
of strained smiles.
We lurk in your zeal’s shadow,
we who have only watched sports
from the bleachered ranks
of high school marching band,
or when forced by friends
into stadiums we prefer to think of
as beer and nacho night
at the shrill whistle amphitheater.
I shall not protest your sports bar monopoly,
nor take glee in the losses of your
sleek body ball-touching millionaire club.
I ask only this:
do not ask that I “give it a try”
or “have some fun for once in my life.”
To me, it is the very image of sadness:
to watch a bar of riveted men,
cheer the work of Sisyphus.
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