The day they tore down Texas stadium,
we all watched it on little salt-and-pepper tvs,
and we forgot the first time
we dove into the community pool in the middle of summer
when heat stroke stole our best men and children,
how we cried in our dayglo floaties
and all the capillaries in our cheeks filled with hot blood
and screamed right in the face
of those chlorine bubbles.
We all saw it, but quickly turned away
and we felt like it was the first time going to church,
surprised by the part
where everyone shakes hands for all the hard times,
for all the sad times, for all the power ballads
ricocheting around every time the Cowboys lost
and we found ourselves hitting on
or getting hit on at some other
peanut-filled mausoleum.
We were all in the middle of feeling
the lines in each other’s palms,
when suddenly we realized
that cement could be broken open
like the peal of the cowbell,
that football – that great slapping of asses –
would never be played again,
that somewhere in the tiny metropolis
we all were torn into, another colossus
would spring up
closer to death.
