We Know the Results (rough, new)

The Super Bowl is Over

and with it, speculation

as pros and amateurs alike

call in to collect their bets.

The Super Bowl is  Over

and we're all a little drunk and

mentioning our friends in Philly

and considering more cocaine

or maybe fighting the bartender.

I need to leave this shouting neighborhood.

The Super Bowl is Over

and there are so many new buildings

beckoning for retail, the suited men

look tired, these streets will not be clean.

the sports bars prepare for another

downturn and hope to live off

these profits at least until Saint Patrick’s day.

The Super Bowl is Over

and it is time to  sort my w2s.

The Super Bowl is Over

and my Dad’s best friend, laid to rest

at the Rainier Beach Mortuary in

a two hour ceremony one hour before

I work. My sister texting tears that

she can’t make it out.

My Mom’s pet dove, family pet for

thirteen years, shivering in it’s blanket

then still.

The Super Bowl is Over

and seriously fuck that one guy,

and his voting record, this can,

or has to, mean something. We

taste  his tears from TV screens.

The Super Bowl is Over

and there are buses I no longer take

pictures I’m wiping from my phone

a Cat I’ll never see again

and a line around the block

for a play I will not see.

The Super Bowl is Over

so no more guesswork. The why

it went the way it did are stories

that will change with tellers. There

will be another one next year

and after that, an occasion

for fundraisers and toy drives
and nachos and puppies

and million dollar commercials.

The Super Bowl is Over

which means there must be winners

but I am more concerned with losses now;

that corner space in the charming building
promised such potential, sits empty.

Someone Else's Countdown

It was a day we didn't have a host, so each of us took turns, rushing toward the front, our nearly-paper Denny's uniforms crinkling with starch, gleaming with the grease in the air. I had a ponytail then, so people sometimes thought I was as old as I am now. A man in light denim and a white fisherman's beard ordered something fish-based to go. That had never been our specialty. He sat in the oval by the windows looking out to a gas station and a parking lot. The cook forgot something and he nodded, saying it was for his wife, so we'd better redo it. He waited, payed, tipped well, mentioned that his wife really liked this Denny's and this dish was her favorite. I nodded and said Well I hope she gets better, I said, so you can both come in and sit down. Oh, he said, and leaned on his cain. She's not getting better.

insta-wringer