these free seats to a game I like so little,
puck and stick, blood on shaved ice,
the test of beer and steps a steep curve.
circle farm of fold down settees
most opposite empty.
I disparage not the play,
don't discount those skating arears,
the dread crawl of Zamboni I fathom,
if not the whistled icing
the roaring surge of stretched net.
a copied bellow next to a father,
teams of dreams associations apart.
I might measure these minutes askance,
assess this skirmish by a different standard,
gawk at this page and not the rink,
but the man with the churro
see it - there
held clenched in his fist,
he is one who yearns for sudden death.