The physics of the game/the bomb
~after Don DeLillo
Two hundred sixteen raised red stitches
and the mathematics of disbelief,
warm peanuts in a brown paper sack
like individual Hail Marys waiting
to be shelled in that pause
between breath and the crack of the bat.
Look, I don’t want to write another poem
about Death. But isn’t every game
and every work of art just another attempt
at prolonging some sense of joy
in the chaotic lack of design,
like a scaffold built to harness the sun?
We take home our trophies with hope
of turning memories into heirlooms,
but the universal truth is a joke that falls flat
as a comedian puking on Frank Sinatra’s shoes.