The poet roams campus on game day.

I feel ignored in a river of red--
waiting for one o'clock kickoff.

Sweet smell of sausages--
strands of blue smoke
over countless tailgate grills.

Groups gather in safe circles--
couples create their worlds.

Clock tower chimes--
compete with the band.

I march, a phantom army of one--
uniformed in crimson and cream
to scout the Union lounge.

Find a lone soldier--
in khaki and Nikes,
playing solitaire.

We should team up, I say--
conscript all the strays,
form an army of solitaires,

to muster on game day--
a battalion of bonding
strangers.