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.
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