Sputterpub's Blog

I love two people into watching sports.
I can’t assert I understand the draw.
Enthusiasm they insist supports
their teams – it matters – but I never saw
the evidence, and when I’m in the zone
(not often or heroic, but I’ve played),
it feels like I’m exerting hard alone,
not noticing the sounds a witness made.

And when they compliment a gracious loss,
and state that’s why all children ought to learn
by playing team athletics how to cross
from glad success to class defeat, I burn
with disagreement – competition’s fair,
but no kid needs a team to take her there.

I thought I’d wish for wealth. But I soon learned
no matter what I saved or spent, or how
invested, I’d forego the power earned
from earning, obligated to endow.

Then specifying leisure time instead,
I planned to take the charm of no more work,
till I remembered effortless. My head
returned to labor and my heart from murk.

So I considered immortality.
As soon as I envisioned time’s demise,
I saw a bored and lonely, jaded me;
I’d rather sprint existence. I’m not wise
but I can forecast where three wishes drift:
my genius must refuse the genie’s gift.

I lost a friend two years ago. She died
alone, unwell: unwelcome news that stunned
us all, although we know how she defied
most critical advice. Conditions gunned
for her at last: a metabolic bomb.
She never cared enough to love self-care.
Now she’s survived by her demented mom,
and we don’t hear her cackle anywhere.

Her laugh was unignorable and loud,
her narratives too manic or irate.
Embarrassing in any social crowd,
her tones then made me wince. That laugh would grate
on any ears. Her character was kissed
with oddities that now are sorely missed.

You died. And now traits
you had that drove me crazy
are what I miss most.