Writing a Poem While Watching Football

This is a MUST game
                                    the announcer says—
So I push my poem aside.

I have to defer—it only seems right—
          for there is no Must in my game plan today.

Only bad snaps, mental errors, false starts.
And now I seem to have entered
              a sort of morality play:

A wide receiver at this level, John,
                          just has to make that catch!

The chastened receiver runs to a frigid huddle.
My pen rolls off the table,
and after it I go a-fumbling.

My goodness, John, he had a similar drop in last year’s playoffs!
Now they are showing the tape.

Yes, I too have tape, lots of shameful tape—
But who can truly say catching the ball is better than dropping it?

                    (Off-sides, number 62! Off-sides!)

At least I played the game—even if
cheerleaders don’t know I exist, even if
        ,peculiarly,
                        the ball slips through my fingers
                                                 every time the game is on the line.

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