Before the game,
TV reports Armageddon,
worrying terrified viewers
the advent of a new ice age.
Bright sunlight reflects the snow
as fans in the stands
reach for their sunglasses
as they await the opening kick-off.
It’s the cold, literally that
freeze-frames the players,
some of whom brazenly wear short sleeves,
some of whom cozily wear three layers.
The San Francisco punter kicks off;
the Packer receiver catches it, and
turns up-field where he is tackled on the 25,
and shatters into a thousand ice crystals.
The refs huddle by a mid-field campfire, and
decide to call the game on account of frost.
THE POETRY OF THE GAME