Footnotes with Rick Kelsheimer: A word

A Poem by Rick Kelsheimer

Damn Bears

Nip of fall and the smell of persimmonis in the air.

October anticipation mixed with grade school optimism.

Dad's finished his chores early today,

because it's almost kickoff time.

The Bears are in Green Bay.

I've got the good seat on the sofa until Dad kicks me off

to join my brothers on the floor.

"Go baby go!" yells Dad, when Gayle Sayers gets the ball.

"Hit him again!" he yells when Butkus makes a play.

He's so excited now he has to run to the fridge for a beer.

I consider claiming my spot on the sofa, but think better of the idea when I see Dad's look of disapproval.

The game is close at half-time;

only down by seven.

Mom serves her contribution for the day.

The half-time feast.

Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots.

She made the carrots for me; they're my favorite.

But it's "Eat fast boys! The second half is ready to begin."

It's a good day so far.

But then

we fumble...

then punt...

then fumble again.

A dark cloud settles over the household.

I can tell Dad's had enough.

"Damn Bears" he mumbles to himself as he goes back to his tractor.

My brothers lose interest and go back to fighting each other.

Traitors!

I know it's not over as I take my rightful spot on the sofa.

If we can score quickly...

recover the onside kick...

and score again...

we would only need a field goal for the tie.

But things don't go as planed.

Time runs out and the referee shoots his gun.

Green Bay 31 Chicago 14

I sit in solitude and disgust.

Thinking...

Damn Bears...

The Black Panther of Flat Rock

Some say he's a myth
No reason for fright
But I stand here as witness
He's out there at night

Don't go out alone
When the sun's gone to rest
For the panther is stalking
In search of his quest

Coal black as the night
And swift like the deer
So stay safe in your home
This cat has no fear

Leaves no trace of his victim
Devours all of his kill
Then it's off to the next one
More blood must be spilled

The quiet hamlet of Flat Rock
Four hundred souls think she's just fine
But go out in the the night when the cat's on the prowl
Population ... three ninety-nine

Footnotes with Rick Kelsheimer

Friday, March 25, 2011

A word

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