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1.21 Jigowatts

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Today a sixty-something man zooms past my sedan.
       Last night he came during paid sex  
       faster than his Mustang’s top speed.
His plugs look believable; they blow like bewildered bumblebees
caught in the fiery hive of the Santa Anas’ swarm.  
             There is no one in the passenger seat.
                                 He is smiling as if only he knows why.

Today the U.S. hockey team is down one
in the last seconds of the gold medal game.
        They have pulled their goalie, a frenzied last ditch effort to tie.
                                Prayers become pucks become score.
        Bodies collide into each other as they are reborn,
given new life known as overtime.

              Today a black boy runs after an ice cream truck.
              His rangy inner-city limbs taunt the wind.
              Change rattles in his pocket like
              meager tithes in a collection plate.
              In ten years he will be a millionaire,
              sprinting down European straightaways
              destined to become a track and field God. 

Within the past month, there have been major earthquakes in Japan, Haiti, and
Chile.
This morning at church my preacher says Soon we will all die. 

                 Today the U.S. lost in overtime,
                              settling for a metal shining like a second-class citizen. 

Today I am sitting alone on the floor in my living room.
Today I am crying.
          I don’t know why.
                           I don’t even like hockey.

 (originally published in Fogged Clarity)

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About Daniel Romo

Author of When Kerosene's Involved (Mojave River Press, 2014) and Romancing Gravity (Silver Birch Press, 2013). I'm partial to prose poems. Alliteration. And fragments.

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