A Poem: MORNING WALK

A Poem: MORNING WALK

Walking among the detritus—
a feather and rusty screw
a red leaf torn away from its roots—
I let the sea wash over my shoes
and hum a song to you
on the hard nights
you’re the ace right
.
These waves could swallow your mountains,
the surfers stand no chance,
even the boats simply rock and dance,
we’re all just mixed-up pebbles
tossed up on the sand,
waiting for a hand
to choose and rinse us off
like these tiny orange shells,
mini saucers made of carnival glass,
which I would gladly carry to you
on a carousel horse
made of water and foam
just to place them in your palm
or the crook of your door
wiping clean the miles
between those hills
and this November shore.

(italicized lyric is from “Tiderays” by Volcano Choir)

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Football and the Sunday Blues

A bleak Sunday morning, the very definition of gray.  Leafless trees twisting in the ferocious winds.  Random scraps spinning from yard to yard (a paper plate, a torn envelope).  Cold.

If I lived near the ocean, I would bundle up and take a walk on the boardwalk or along the water’s edge.  If I lived in the city, I would wrap myself in appropriate gear and wander.  Alas, sigh, I live somewhere in between.

So…as the wind slaps this little rental house and I debate whether or not to raise the thermostat (I suppose I can just do my worrying when the heating bill actually arrives), I feel the all-too-familiar Sunday Blues begin to set in like a fever.  What is it about Sunday?  Is it really just the thought of going to work tomorrow that puts me in a slump?  Anxiety of a full workweek ahead?  I don’t get it.  I don’t feel this way when I have a Monday off, or a Tuesday, or Wednesday, for that matter.  And isn’t Sunday supposed to be a marvelous day?  Filled with big breakfasts, the New York Times, phone calls to friends and family, trips to the park.  

Football.  The only antidote to my Sunday Blues that seems to work.  I’ll admit, I only discovered the game about six years ago, when I wanted to beef up my lunch conversations with a huge male partner population at the accounting firm where I was working.  Prior to that, I dismissed football, and most other professional sports, as mindless time-wasters.  An excuse for a bunch of guys to get together and eat greasy food.  Snobbery on my part?  Perhaps.  More like pure ignorance.  Forgive me, for I knew not the truth. 

Little did I know that football is a game of intelligence, strategy, and suspense.  This is not a game of a bunch of neanderthals tossing a pigskin back and forth to one another.  NO.  This is a chess match, a tournament of minds and athleticism.  Each team masterminds every one of their plays to try to trick the opponent while demonstrating their own brawn, grace, and skill.  This is a palm-sweating, nail-biting three hours of televised bliss that is truly not over until it is over.  Three seconds on the clock?  No matter.  The losing team still has time to win.  

I am an addict.  From August to Super Bowl, and even the year between as I read for any football news, I am hooked.  But it’s more than just a game to me.  Football has cured me of the Sunday Blues (well mostly, anyway).  Even on this dreary, bone-chilling morning, as I daydream of living elsewhere and reflect on my long “To-Do” list of lesson plans, bills, laundry, ironing, writing, reading, cleaning, grading, etc. etc. etc. blahblahblah, I thrill at the knowledge that I will be watching football games for most of the day and evening.  No more guilt over lying my Sunday away on the couch with the remote control; I have an excuse now, I’m a football junkie.  No more pressure to conquer my list of chores without injecting any pleasure.  Since I’m quite a proficient multitasker, I can watch the games AND write out my bills, grade papers, put in a load of wash, iron, even read a little bit and check my Facebook page during Half-Time.  Now that’s what I call a Sunday.

Life is good.  Thank you, Football.