Now that the NFL Draft is almost over,
I’m eagerly anticipating, in a couple of months,
the ‘vicarious’ activation of some of my deteriorating muscle groups that will (hopefully) support the functioning of others.
Super Bowl Sunday early afternoon,
my son aims and flexes his air guitar
at plasma big-screen images:
Air Guitar Championships.
Game time! I claim the remote,
tunnel vision on the fifty inch screen.
My wife joins me for the final quarter,
score tied, fourth down for them.
I’m pursuing their quarterback,
my arms tighten, my legs cramp,
I grab a beer, my wife wants one;
I eat a nacho, she wants one.
An alternative reality interrupts.
A techno-baby talks stocks.
I’ll buy some.
The game is nearly over,
My halfback sprints and is hit at the goal!
I push a pile of heaving man-body,
nachos spilling in the beer,
knees bumping my wife.
We score, I shout, “We’re number ONE!”
“It’s time for church”, she says.
Energized, I’d love to go worship!
In bed that night, surfing HBO,
I’m stopped by an image:
two breasts overseeing a hand
caress a muscular thigh.
The image prompts my distracted,
sultry wife to move closer,
touch my thigh.
I worship the image.