What am I to do? Sports hates poetry and I cannot relax
in either place. Competitive sweat
taking place beneath the emotional bet
has no place where nightingales sing and moons wax.
I like poetry and sports. Am I a freak?
I believe one can dabble, but is it possible
calculating game plans and odds with love is just as noble
as coining words and feelings in the way I speak?
This Sunday, on January 19th, bells will ring
for the birthday of the author of “The Raven.”
But will I nestle in that retrospective haven?
Will I read a minor poem and feel its minor sting?
I will! But this Sunday, I will scream. The Ravens
play the Bills. Search the world. There are no havens.
Don’t bet on the Ravens. Don’t cast aside all reports.
Poetry may favor the Ravens. But poetry hates sports.