The downtime pauper

A work event swallowed my Saturday, now Monday
has entered my house and I am without rest,
a downtime pauper, the only resident of my alms bowl
a half penny rust-stuck to the bottom.
How will I face this week?
Sleep will help. I must make every moment
of shuteye count. No lollygagging in
dreamy dramas of lovemaking.
I must build restfulness brick by brick. But still
the dam may break and the world flood with duty.
And there go all the other shlubs swimming by,
one hand stroking as they talk business
on their cell phones. How will I survive this week?
Just keep your heart beating, Dan.
Friday will come, eventually.

Abomination

I have no poems this morning.
I have nothing to compare to something else,
no precious observations.
My tank is empty.
Okay, I have a few metaphors
but I can’t string them together like DNA
to create that living thing.
I walk into the day musicless,
without a soul.
Others sense this and are not amused.
Cats hiss at me.
Blind people see my image burned in their retina.
A priest soaks me with holy water
and commands me to begone.
Someone will take pity on me, out here in the cold.
They’ll stop whipping pop cans at my head
and driving on curbs to hit me.
Someone will toss me a poem. I’ll call it my own,
because if you can’t find a soul
the next best thing is to fake it.

The eater of purple people

I almost wrecked another Minnesota Vikings game on Sunday and it took only ten seconds of watching. I turned the game on with seven minutes to go in the fourth quarter and the Vikes were up 30 to 17. Instantly the gods of this lifelong curse, sensing my presence, inspired the Ravens running back to catch the ball midfield and crash his way through bowling pin defenders to the Vikings 10 yard line. I turned the TV off quickly but the damage was done. The next time I checked the score the Ravens were winning by a point.

Every time I watch a Vikings game they lose in some agonizing, emasculating way, usually to the Lions. I know this and yet I can’t help causing this annual train wreck.

Why me? I ask the Lord, but He doesn’t deign to answer questions pertaining to contact sports, so I try not to watch football at all to avoid temptation. I do this for you, Minnesota. In my mind I stress the most barbaric aspects of the game: the brutal hits, the tacklers voodoo dancing above their crumpled victims. But eventually the devil puts a tingle in my fingers and I grab the remote, crushing the dreams of woeful Vikings fans weighed down already by the eleven-month Minnesota winter.

The Vikings won on Sunday by two points. They were lucky this time, but if they are to win the Super Bowl they must go through me. Either that or bring about my untimely death, but something tells me I’ll be unintentionally hexing this purple crew for many years to come.