January 13, 2008
I cut my finger on a piece of glass—
a large piece from a broken beer bottle
lodged in my boot while walking down New Hampshire Ave.
with my friend Adam, heading back from the pub
where we watched the Giants beat the Cowboys in the playoffs,
which made Cowboys fans weep,
which made Terrell Owens weep.
I feel the unjustifiable joy of victory.
Even poets have rivals,
which we dream about.
We dream mascots for ourselves that eat or maul
the mascots of enemy poets.
My mascot is a greedy badger
who picks up mushrooms and throws them at canaries,
who turn tale and chirp miserably away.
Forgive me if I dwell in victory
while my wife dwells in her new new blue-star patterned bathrobe.