Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Missing Wedge

A cheese head short

Of being a traitor in Packer land

Hiding behind the pages, the glasses, the bookshelves,

Hoping to be invisible for just a moment longer

In the land of a game that is so embedded in the soul

That anyone who is not involved 

Is a treacherous spirit, a miscreant and worse yet, a nerd.

Exile for anyone

Who does not know the details

Of the fatal call, final move, final score,

End zone dance of the sacred holy men

In green and gold with laurels upon their helmets

And padding upon their divine muscles.

Zealous preachers of Astroturf and domed arenas

Recognized by the golden foam on their heads

And draughts on their lips,

Brushing away everything else in life as insignificant,

Almost criminal, in the height of the season

That blesses the houses, 

Shuns the man, stuns the man

Who dares to stand up to the roaring crowd,

Admitting that he would rather read a book instead.

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