By Marge Piercy
Among my husbands and lovers
I had never before lived
with a sports fan. Hockey
he does not follow, but base-
ball, basketball, football, all
in their seasons consume him.
I had to share something,
baseball is too slow. Basket-
ball goes on months
and months, interminably,
a herd of skinny giants
running back and forth myst-
erious as a flock of swallows
wheeling together at twilight.
But football: Ir's only sixteen
Sundays and maybe playoffs.
That seemed reasonable. I
bought a book. Now every
Sunday in season I stare
avidly while huge millionaires
collide like rival rhinoceros.
When we watch the Super
Bowl with groups of men
and I explained a nickel
back they gaze at me
with esoteric lust. I
look only at the screen.
Football, it is mine.
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