Orange leaves fade to brown
it's autumn,
nearing a winter's Sunday in Louisiana.

And where is he?

Legs dangling and dancing
half wrapped in his tattered
faded washed cornflower blue throe.

Sitting on top of their bed,
heels tapping,
then knocking like a swift
fist that comes pawing
at your door in the death grip
of night.

Paul Bunyan gives way,
alas the footboard
collecting its own breath just in
the nick of time
before another assault.

Perennial duty calls:
"It's just another one of those Sunday's,"
his wooden thoughts flex like an accordion.

Seduced by the anthem,
the huddled masses,
the tossed coin.
the whistle blows; they're off!

the flags and the pigskin fly
across the starspangled
New Orleans cosmos

Full-forced hits. It's on!

And where is he?
I dare not retort?

Why,
slain under the power
of course!
that is what saints do,
down under, right?

Fully baptized!
immersed way down deep
fully clothed.
not sprinkled.

unrequited instructions,
refereeing at its best-----
long arms, long throws
good catches
zone action.

He's pleased.
He rises to his feet,
nothing changes----
in his favorite socks,
ancient and holy
traditionally,
reaching into the inner
sides,
pulling,
stretching,
illuminating every eyelet

He stands there,
pensively.
he gives a zig and then,
a zag
right side heel to zig
left side heel to zag
until they're completely off.

Slinging his throe to and fro
darting about
his left arm levitates with a
sudden Ali jab towards the set.

Phrases!
oh the sharp tongue twister phrases!
too poison to inject

Half time is over;
he's suspened again.

-----from Songs of a Journey's End, the poet's companion to the tetralogy, Laying Within the Mark