Sunday Afternoon

 

 

He died doing what he loved, watching football

in ultra high-def and shouting out corrections

of the color guy’s grammar; duly pouring

an Octoberfest at the start of each quarter

 

to either embolden the young secondary or help

re-establish the running game, while many in town

were out dragging in wooden skiffs, getting their

limit of bay scallops on special family permits.

 

The fall here stands you up, buckling leaves the

deep red of Falcons’ sleeves Away, peach tips

of yellowing swamp maples aglow like early ‘80s

Buccaneer jerseys spinning down in SLO-MO.

 

Dinner for those who culled and shucked will be

pearly gobbets simmered in butter, but game fare

here was cheesesteaks, loaded—no, it’s O.K.,

the no-huddle Iggles in the other conference.

 

What ground is gained, boats cranked up onto

trailers as the clock winds down and officials mark

forward progress. Why move the chains—let

the unbalanced lines crash into each other.

 

He should be remembered for his love of the end

around and cadences that insisted, always

seemingly split out to the left, bending forward, set

on the hard count, looking at third and manageable.