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.
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