Halogen Suns

1.

A thousand halogen suns burn the Astroturf
at night,
the sounds of the trumpet and the drums – bass, snare, cymbals –
heralding our warriors:
black and blue and blistering
with raw presence and power.
They march onto the desert
whose sands are scorched by
the halogen suns.

2.

From the sidelines
groans and grunts of dying soldiers
shatter the seconds
on the clock.
First down and ten yards to go.
These gladiators of the pigskin
may not make it, you know.

3.

They cheer.
They shout.
As bones are broken and
droplets of sweat glisten
under the desert sun
hanging in the air like crystallized
tears, shed for our side.

4.

He takes the pass, beautiful pass,
and rushes. That’s right, down
the corridor. They’re tailing him
and, hell, he’s fast. Look at that, he manages to lose them.
(and ten yards to go.)
I smell burning turf! Yes, there you go, folks, right into
the end zone. What a –

5.

A thousand halogen suns burn
that landscape, where egos are crushed and
men die, drowning in their own
diaphoresis, trapped inside a cage of plastic, and vinyl, and shoulder pads.
(The uniform of our warriors.)
Those warriors of Monday nights and Sunday afternoons
and bowls and incandescent sponsors.
Those suns burn – night and day – and
are never extinguished.