Tim Seibles

GAME DAY

for Colin Kaepernick

Here they come: Bobble-heads.
Hot dogs.  Big dudes and beer.

The stadium, a living thing.
Little kids fizz like fresh Pepsi.

You always loved the game.
Didn’t you always get picked first

in the schoolyard: like stepping
into a good dream – the ball

in your hands, you were a snake
with wings: a shimmy, a shake

and the defense disappeared.

Then came your faith
in highlights – catch,

cutback, touchdown, blood –

the stars pointing up
to a God they knew kept score

and the cheerleaders: sequins
in their eyes, smiles you hoped

meant something sexual.  The TV
sizzled and blazed, and the players

on your posters promised
someday you might never be alone:

crossing a street, cruising the mall,
your face, the big surprise – your long run

the ESPN on everyone’s lips.
You had to believe

a bright jersey and a good arm
could change everything,  
even your tough country.

And weren’t they wonderful,
those days when you knew nothing

could catch you – runnin
like he was late for the last bus! –

and maybe what gave you that
sidestep, that blind speed

was partly fear: The Past

re-set, always scheming
to chase you down. 

But wasn’t the NFL The Emerald City?

Weren’t you the flying house?  
for awhile.  Weren’t you 

Dorothy?  Weren’t you

the Scarecrow
and the Wizard of Oz?

Hard for anyone to believe
that History is no dream.

The stadium rings, even now,
like a medieval cathedral:

the anthem fades, the uneasy
citizens take their seats.

These days, you watch it all
on TV.  You remember

bright mustard, fresh
meat boosting the breeze –

and when one team starts to lose,
the shouts and jeers replay

some old questions: who’s bleeding
on the field?  Who’s howling

from the stands?  How simply
this long season continues –

like a kind of obedience,
a bone bruise that lingers

or some other thing
not mentioned in the song:

SOMETIMES FREDDY BLUES VILLANELLE

for Freddy Porter

Sometimes Freddy    would talk to the trees
And the brothaz would just laugh half the time
But a few of’em said Have mercy on me

Think about all that good sunlight you see
Yet somehow the days peel away like rind
Mostly Freddy just talked to the trees

Branches say somethin when they shake in the breeze
Believe what’chu want, but it could be a sign 
Maybe they’re sayin Have mercy on me

Sundays I sit with a brain full’a fleas
And listen to people speak for the Divine
Wish they would go and just talk to the trees

Hiding a scream is like holdin a sneeze 
It’s all you can do not to lose your damn mind
I see why people say Have mercy on me

I’m starting to list like a ship in rough seas
I guess you just have to laugh half the time
And think about Freddy and walk with the trees

I look at my watch, but my watch is a tease
Or maybe it’s always a quarter past nine
Them thin little hands have mercy on me

Think about Sponge Bob with his home in the sea
Wouldn’t you visit if you had the time? 

Sometimes Freddy    would talk to the trees
You can see why I say Mercy, mercy on me

Tim Seibles is the author of several poetry collections including Hurdy-Gurdy, Buffalo Head Solos, One Turn Around The Sun, and Fast Animal, which was a finalist for the 2012 National Book Award and winner of the Theodore Roethke Memorial Poetry Prize. Tim is a former NEA fellow and recipient of a fellowship from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center. Voodoo Libretto, a collection of his new and selected poems will be released later this year. He recently completed a two-year appointment as Poet laureate of Virginia.

Photo credit: Jennifer Fish