Ofernyc’s Weblog

Tailgate

It wasn’t the second great depression
or the Canadian dollar that soared
but the neighborly sharing
of madness, the joint taste
for Labette, regular or light,
painting faces with bisons—red white
and blue, cheer for the city
who claimed chicken wings,
and the wish for something more exciting
than civility. This carnival won’t be found
north of the border: flying
range of footballs, ping pong punch drunks,
the sophisticated art
of grilling, of parking your Tundra truck
and unloading goodness—
home made sausages, Saint John’s egg
and patty on biscuit, goulash
mixed pasta, and Ann’s famous taco dip—
enough for twelve hours, handled
by gloved hands in lower 20s wind-chill
only northern statesmen
long for.

Across the border each Sunday
inching across the bridge with their passports, not for the game
but the five-hour pre-cooking and drinking,
then another three
after the game, avoiding
the eighty thousand car gridlock,     turning
dumpsters to ovens with charcoal
and wood, torches of solidarity
among die-hard fans—win or lose.
Canada—wide and mnemonic—knows not of this
savage lot on Monday, post-battle
reminder of the ruthless
and broken hearted, face painted
and drunk, those who left their families at home
or brought them along, in SUVs for the day
or RVs for the weekend,     Bills on their hats
and shirts.     Later they will clean up their faces
not to draw attention at Canadian customs, smuggling smoke
in bottles of beer, and ashes
from the fire of mortality.