A graduate sits,
thinking
of the old school.

Fireworks across the highway
from his couch
bang the night apart.

Back in the day
he loved the fireworks
after games,

loved the way
it smelled when the last squib
had ignited

and everyone walked home after
talking and flirting and
laughing.  Smelled

like a little bit
of hell
was in the air

and back then,
he liked that.  Now
he sits on the couch

swapping stories
over the Internet
with former hellboys.

Now and then a burst
from the campus
will give him pause

but he’s old enough to know
close up, the noise
would kill his listening

for the subtleties he prefers now:
a well-turned play, a pass carved in the air
like a swallow’s path.

As for what accompanied
the old school games,
the dark talk on warm nights,

in that he has little interest.
Give him a chance to see again
the way the game can be

an art, a painting of effort
in mere atmosphere,
and he might get up from the couch

and walk down the road to watch
the fireworks, but only after
the last play has been made.

I used to ride a horse.
He used to throw me a lot.
He used to run off with me on his back
and go where he wanted,

so I sold that horse
and got a brain instead.
It used to throw me a lot.
It used to run off using my mouth
and people shunned me,

so I put him in the stall
where I used to keep my horse
and I got myself a shiny heart instead.

It used to throw me a lot.
It used to buck and slip its bridle
and kick me whenever I tried
to stroke its damaged nose or brush its tangled tail.

So I hobbled that dinged up heart
and got myself a gut instinct.
It used to throw me a lot.
It used to make me follow it around
and I ended up in brambles
cursing what led me there.

So I put the gut instinct
in another stall
and got myself a dream.
It used to throw me a lot.
It used to run smooth for a while
and then stop short so I’d fly
way out over its head into mud
and scrape myself getting out
and stand there while it grazed,
ignoring me for not knowing how to ride.

So I put that dream out to pasture
and now I’ve got a lot of mouths to feed
that aren’t doing me much good.
That throws me a lot.
That makes me want to slit my throat
and think about electric fences and chairs
and nooses.

Maybe I should have
stuck with the horse
for a little while longer.
I could have worked
a little harder.  I could have learned
to love it.  We might have formed
a bond.