OLYMPICS
Bad enough that Sparta reigns over Athens for a few weeks
and in the rush for gold the field is littered with broken dreams
but it is the judges who frighten me most, the difference between first and last
being a hopped toe, half-splash or crimp in the pike position.
It makes me dare the bruised peach to drip on my T-shirt.
When I cut the morning melon I feel the eyes of the Bulgarian judge
all over me taking points off for my grip and if I get it right my urine is suspicious.
What is the first bud in a false spring other than a lurch in response to the starter's gun?
I celebrate messy humanity; a misstep here, a blemish there, Satchmo's rasp,
the riffs not on the page. Blessed are the slips and wobbles
when we don't nail the landing,
the accidents that got us this far as we stumble our way along.
The Hopi potters knew to make a hole in their bowls not to offend the gods.
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REAL FANS (For Ron who never saw the home run but made it happen)
Descendants of pagans
Idolaters who speak to the gods in wood or fire,
who understand the power of the sacrificial act.
Real fans are the zealots who move their bodies
into others to do battle, once removed
against the forces of darkness.
Never just spectators, they suit up for the game
in a different skin, grow fur and fangs,
and have found the clearing in the forest
where they can lay down and die for a day.
Their song is an incantation over the brew.
Even in their full ferocity with the crowd on its feet
real fans remain in their seats, back against wood,
against tree and root, tunneling across ocean floors
and centuries, aligned with the slayers of dragons
and those possessed.
In the end it is they who control the fate,
not the mere players,
who reenact the ritual theater, the game again and again.
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