A Poem for Martin
A row of hardhats and football helmets
hang from a rack above the bar mirror.
Each decaled with a college team logo
and mascot - if you were here I wonder
which you would assign to schools of poets.
And sure, critics have their muse
- and here she is, the boss, seventy
or so, black slacks, loopy gold earrings,
a helmet of silver-white hair, grim,
stern, terse but pouring generously.
Though the game's a rout, young but crumpled
ex-linemen don't take their eyes off the TV
while comparing old injuries:
“My back hurt so bad I just wanted
somebody to shoot me in the face.”
How should the referee call that one?
A penalty for excessive irony
or for brutally direct truthfulness?
A point for either?
How about two points for both?