Poem a day 2015: 12

Packer Poem

The first year of our life here, late October,

we went to a Packer Bear game at Lambeau Field,

complete with the tailgate party, parked on

someone’s shallow lawn, the half six-pack,

the grilled brats and stumbling trips to Kroll’s

West for bladder relief and a butter burger,

then, buzzed and pumped full of green and gold, we

wedged ourselves into the stadium with another

60,000 people, all sweating in the wine-colored late

afternoon, all screaming and fisting the air, standing

and sitting, smacking each other (strangers and friends

alike) high fives and sloshing expensive cups of flat

beer, as down below, in the gladiatorial space,

armored men crashed into each other again and again,

fighting for the ball, wrestling and flinging each other

over head, trampling on legs and arms, grabbing

at helmets and shins, driving their elbows like wedges

into walls of seething flesh.

They scored then we scored then they kicked a field goal

and we returned the favor, back and forth, the evening coming on

with a chill, the lights blazing up over us in fluorescent halos.

Until the last minute, we screamed ourselves hoarse, as if

we could change the course of events with our voices, with

sheer force of will. In the final seconds, we lost,

the Packers -- already our team -- filed away in defeat,

and we followed our new friends out of the stadium, shaking

our heads, feeling the melancholy fill our veins as the booze

finally evaporated, and the crisp night air fill our lungs,

and the rest of our lives in this new home

stretch out before us in a row of red taillights.