We live for the Super Bowl
after limiting the outcome
to two teams.
Three brothers all played
on our high school team,
wounded warriors, it often seemed.
Cold presses on bruises
and after-game body soaks
became a game-night theme.
How did you get that bruise,
I often asked with due concern.
Sighing, they asked do you never learn?
No one likes to be on the bottom.
I was tackled when I caught the ball.
Then everyone piled on.
There are rules it seems in every game.
And who carries the ball
has a special name.
We cheer the ball carrier who gained the right
to run down the field, ball in hand;
headed for the goal-post to our delight.
Opposing teams and its followers never cheer.
They moan and groan and shout in anger,
sensing competition they cannot abide.
Watchers of the game have more swagger,
are more eager to throw weighted hammers
of hateful words and punches in the air.
Losers are the worst and soundly curse players.
They cannot play the game themselves.
and berate their own team’s players worst of all.
No one likes to be on the bottom of the pile.
It takes more effort to climb to the top.
Clawing, and shoving against pinching all the while.
The guy on the bottom has no chance
without a referee, or two, or three.
All rights lost when thrown to his knees.
More men pile on top to hold him in place
where they believe he belongs,
until he is able to fight his way free.
We watch and ask,
our hearts in our throats,
where are the referees?
Not on our city streets.
Nor in Congress, it seems.
America has become a nightmare,
killing the American Dream.
annarino writes 