Old School

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.