He lithely dodged a crusty ten year old
and spun on air—not bad for forty-two.
He found the end-zone clear and hit it cold
and harder than an inkpen jail tattoo.
The cheater blitzed on four Mi’ssippies, pal–
you saw the dance, that sand and bully kick
come up the gut, destroying the morale
of rookie linemen slippery and quick.
You saw him spike the ball he should have eaten
and how he wouldn’t give the kid a break.
Consider all the ways he might be beaten—
you saw the way he telegraphs the fake.
That’s business, pal. As brutal as it gets.
On Avon beach, they’re calling in the bets.
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