Finally Free on a Friday Night

This is the first night in months that I’ve had nothing to think about. The first draft of my novel is finished and tonight I am sitting alone at my kitchen table amazed at how barren it looks now that my character notes have been put away. My computer screensaver now holds a different picture instead of the one of me and my muse standing and smiling under a clear blue late summer sky. I knew when the draft was done I would have to say goodbye to her. In fact, I was already in mourning during the last two weeks of writing. Maybe it was the past memory of her or the current regret of her not being here with me that made me so sad. But the feeling was real and I had to find a way to look away from her face while still keeping her fresh in my mind. I was successful in my challenge but I still feel the heartache from reaching the finish line. Taking her photo off my screensaver was the final task of my writing but it felt like more. With one click of a mouse button, part of my life was ending. It was that part of me that still held out hope for her to come back to me. Now I knew it was no more and I even went to the point of pulling the actual clothes that I wore in that picture out of my closet and donating them to Goodwill. This may seem to be a drastic step but I needed all remnants of that moment in time out of my sight. Now currently devoid of those memories of that past, I sit away wondering how to create new ones.

First rambling after NaNo

After 30 days of joy and pain, I finished with 50,550 words.  I feel good but spent.  But I must at least have some fun.  This quote by H.G. Wells was the first thing that popped up and I thought it was cool.

“ There comes a moment in the day when you have written your pages in the morning, attended to your correspondence in the afternoon, and have nothing further to do. Then comes that hour when you are bored; that's the time for sex. ”

Sounds good in theory but since I'm a single man and vast majority of the women I know are already spoken for, I don't think the last part will work out anytime soon. 

Oh well.

NaNoWriMo - Day 2

Day 1 of NaNoWriMo is over with.  I got close to 1,600 words typed and a good start into my story.  I feel good that I was able to sit down and do that much.  But I still need to work on not letting life get in the way at times.  It ranged from the trivial (texts from a friend), to personal interests (my Virginia Tech Hokies losing again last night), and professional items (layoffs and restructuring at my job, not affected but feel bad for those who were).  So I finally got time to do what I needed to do.

But I’ve got 29 more days to go.  And I’m pretty sure more distractions are coming (I already know I’ll need to say no to a few things this weekend).  But I will keep pressing because I told myself I wanted to do this and I feel good about the story that I want to tell.  So we shall press on.

Hopefully you guys won’t run into too many distractions and can put them aside when you need to.

 

NaNoWriMo - Day 1

Day One of NaNoWriMo has arrived and I’m finally excited.  I can actually start writing.  I’ve done some planning and worked on the main characters.  But the best part of the eve of this was putting together a “soundtrack” to the story.  I used to scoff at the idea, especially a few years ago when I saw an artist boldly state that his latest album was a “soundtrack” to his autobiography that had just come out.  Now I look at that idea a little differently now.  I know this is not the time to think book or album sales, but I’m finding music to your story is important.

I tend to listen to the same types of music that my characters are listening to.  It helps me get into what they are thinking and feeling as they go along in the story.  So I’ve been digging back into my cassette tapes (yeah, still got ‘em even though I can’t play ‘em) and looking back at the music I listened to in high school and college to help me along. 

What do you guys do to get yourself ready to write?  What is your “soundtrack”?  Suggestions and ideas are welcome.

Thoughts About National Novel Writing Month

Last week I decided to sign up for National Novel Writing Month. The basis of this is for a writer to write a novel from scratch during the month of November, minimum word count of 50,000 words. I know people who have done this and they have enjoyed the experience. So I have decided to join in, throw my proverbial hat into the ring, and try to accomplish this feat.


As of right now, there are eight more days in the month of October before this journey of mine starts. I read a blog entry of a fellow writer talking about the process of doing this. One of the first things stated is how she tried to average 2,000 a day in order to complete the task. As a poet who has written poems that are at times no more that 100 words, the thought of typing hundreds, much less thousands, seems like a daunting task. Even when I wrote my first novel Nice Guys Finish Last, I know I didn’t come close to that. It took close to five years to write the first draft of that book. Now I am trying to duplicate a little more than half of that (book was almost 90,000 words) in a month. It seems mind boggling.

But facing this task has made me have to do something that I have never had to do during my journey into writing. I have had to think about writing.

Think about how much time each day I would write. Think about where I would be writing. Think about setting a schedule each day to take care of the necessities of my life (work, exercise, meals, etc.) and the necessity of writing. There’s a lot more to think about and I guess those things will come to me as I prepare myself for this task.

Part of my preparation has already taken place. I have told my family and friends of what I am doing and the fact that I will have to skip events, spend less time with them, and even avoid correspondence unless in case of an emergency. I told my Mom I would not cut her or Dad out totally, but not to expect to see me too much during this time. The part that stinks is that writing is already a lonely endeavor as it is and now I’m pulling away even further. I can already feel an internal war going on within myself between withdrawing and reaching out to people, which isn’t good considering the position that I hold at work, where I am needed to converse with my company’s most important client multiple times a day. I know they wouldn’t understand if I became distant. Plus I have always had this fear that if I let too much time go between any sort of human contact with friends that some of them would disappear totally from my life.

Maybe I’m wrong for thinking such gloom and doom. Maybe I just need to concentrate on myself and this story that needs to get out. But I know from the time I have been writing up until now there is a sense of isolation when I sit in front of my computer or sit with a pen and pad in my hand. It’s hard to explain to the average person what is going through my head or my body when I get to that place where I am ready to create with words. I have obtained a number of friends through the writing community and I know they understand how I feel. But I have to take a step back from them as well.

(Oh look at me worry, worry, worry. Why do I worry so?)

The Failure of Prince Charming

Reality ran over my
dream scenario like a
running back taking on
an overmatched safety,
 
the collision quite sickening
and I had to sit there and
witness it all.  This weekend,
it showed me there are no
 
such things as fairy-tale
endings, the palace and
the carriage and the regal
dress never existed.
 
But there’s still a lingering
question that remains:
What the hell am I going to do
with this glass slipper?
 
Cinderella told me to
leave it in the car, that
she had to honor the
life she lives now.  She
 
has settled for mice and
pumpkins, no longer
pining to be the
princess in anyone’s story.
 
So I sulk away from my
dreams,  no longer able
to do that, now only seeing
stepsisters in my mind.

Taken For Granted

She told me
men were two-timing
cheating dogs.
 
She told me
that and in the process,
I felt wounded.
 
I know it wasn’t
me who she was
talking about, but
 
I felt her misguided
bullets tearing though
my manhood and I
 
don’t think she saw
the holey hell she
caused in her statement.
 
Then I asked her,
What about me?
wondering since in her eyes,
 
men were two-timing
cheating dogs if I
was a dog myself.
 
She tried to gloss it over,
said I was a good guy friend
but the damage was done
 
and she found no need to
tend to my wounds.  I
didn’t feel like a man then
 
and she sure as hell didn’t
try to treat me like one. 
Maybe it wasn’t him
 
that was the problem
but her, she taking her
men for granted.

 

 

Old Friends

Age has
grayed their hair and
slowed their steps but
their bond of friendship
remains strong.  Years
 
of travel along the road
of life, from college boys,
to  young professional men,
to family men, and now here
walking together as the sun

 

begins to cast a smaller

shadow, still sharing thoughts,
ideas, memories.  And I
wonder, do they think
about the day when it’ll all
 
end, when the good Lord
decides to call one of them
home?  Will it be a sad day?
Do they already know
time is ticking down?

Fear

I did it all in fear.
 
Fear of not living up
to expectations set by
family and elders, to
not be that good little boy
that everyone wanted, to
not grow up to be that
good man that everyone
hoped for.  I did it all
because I was afraid
to get off the road.
 
But now, even with
where I stand, there
is a feeling that
gnaws at my soul
telling me I should’ve
done more, that I
gave away too much
time trying to be nice,
hoping each day that
no one would be mad at me.
 
Fear has left me alone
in my bed, feeling
tormented and emasculated,
forever less than the
man I dream about while
I sleep, the superhero that
donned his cape, flew
through the air, saved the
world, and swept the pretty
ladies off their feet.
 
But there are no capes
in my closet, nor do I
fly or even garner a
notice from any female.
Nothing about me is
considered extraordinary
and many days I do not
feel loved or liked  or
even here.  Maybe that’s
becomes my biggest fear,
 
Fear of becoming a faceless
being, just one of the
multitudes that go to and
fro like ants marching to
their colonies.  But no one
around can write my song,
so I keep trying to find
the right words before
facing my ultimate fear:
running out of time.

A Suburban Mom Remembers

She’s always been
one mean bitch.
She was the one
who cackled amongst
the other mother hens
 
about my daughter,
said she dressed too
much like Gaga, said
she needed to be taught
how to look like a lady.
 
She said it, her daughters
repeated it, and now
I have to dry my
child’s tears, tell her
she is still special, to
 
ignore what that lady
had to say.  Ignore her
just the way I have
all these years.  I
remember her from my
 
high school days, trying
her hardest to be like
Madonna, wearing her
MTV outfits to school,
teasing the teen boys, even
 
saying she could be their
Boy Toy.  But I guess she
forgot the past, forgot that
those young boys became
grown men, forget how
 
she stopped being a
Lucky Star, switched to
plain clothes, let her hem line
down, and eventually
learned how to cross her legs.
 
My daughter will learn
those lessons, too. But not
now.  It’s time for dinner;
pizza and soda for the
family tonight.  Her Dad
 
doesn’t need to know about
our talk.  Tonight we’ll enjoy
time at the kitchen table,
then I’ll show her how I
used to dress like Boy George.

 

Behave

Early bird becomes
night owl, unable to
sleep.  Her words
 
tonight make me feel
like a child, a
child who wants playtime
 
but instead is directed to
the corner to put his head
down on his desk.
 
The last two words of
her letter said this,
You behave
 
two simple words with a
simple meaning, but tonight
they feel like the swat of
 
a ruler across my hands;
I didn’t do anything
wrong.  I paid attention,
 
did my homework, and
yet I still got scolded
anyway. Now I wonder
 
if I weren’t so nice,
maybe then I could
get to have recess.

The Club On The Corner

Illegal lap dances,
a little business on the side,
underage libations;
 
Yep, it all happened
and no one said a word.
Why should they?
 
It was all in good
hush-hush fun.
But in this town,
 
a place where they
try their darndest
to make it as
 
family friendly as the
pretty pictures displayed
on the interstate billboards,
 
they shut it all down,
even made the owner
float down the county
 
streams in jailbird orange.
That way the city streams
could stay clear to let the
 
leaders wash their hands
clean.  But no matter
what may come next to that
 
club on the corner,
no one will ever strip away
its naughty side.

 

Poem To A Club Dancer

I wish you could save me,
save me from the mundane world
of the church ladies praying
I will be the one waiting
at the altar for their daughters,
standing at the ready to take
the place of man in their dreams.
 
I wish I could bring you
to stand by my side and show
everyone the type of woman
I dream about, let them see
your curves and your legs and
the way you know how
to use them both.
 
But I need to stop dreaming.
I can see you right
in front of me in the flesh,
but you are still just an
imaginary character playing
to the far-fetched fantasies
we pay accordingly to get
a peek at what we want to have.

He Got A Good Woman

My preacher friend said,
Don’t hate, appreciate
Your blessing is coming.
So I appreciate her,
 
a good woman,
a good sexy woman,
a good sexy woman
who loves her man with
 
a groovy kind of love
that makes that guy smile.
Wishing ill will would be
a punk move by me,
 
only showing that I was
nothing but a vessel of
jealousy and envy. So
when he smiles, I’ll smile.
 
His happiness means he’s
been blessed and I know
it’s only a matter of time
until I get blessed, too.

A Night of Drinking

It all started in a strip club,
drinking a beer, watching a
less than attractive brunette try
to coerce dollars from the men
sitting around the stage.
 
Too bad she couldn’t dance a lick,
the only person tipping her
a weathered old man wearing
faded denim and a trucker’s cap
with a rebel flag on it.
 
That’s when I saw him,
an acquaintance from years before.
We met at a bachelor party for
a mutual friend, a sordid affair
where ten young males
 
drank themselves to oblivion
as we watched a stripper do things
to Life Savers and quarters that
none of us had ever seen before.
Remembering that started our
 
conversation, a talk about nothing
in particular, just as another duo
of less than average women
sauntered in front of us, ready
to dance. Then he made a proposal:
 
We would blow this place and
hit the town; I was driving, he
was buying.  Of course I did what
any other young, red-blooded,
up-for-anything male would do;
 
I got ready to drive. 

Solid Ground

Every step I take
is planted firmly on the ground.
It may seem I am
bouncing from here to there,
showing up everywhere,
and at times
like I'm flying.

But every place I go
and person I meet,
I am guided by feet that
no longer have to be
on false fronts, leading me
to create imaginary faces
just to be liked.

Every time the church says
it's the solid Rock
where I should stand.
But this is not that type
of testimony.  Rather
this is a declaration,
a declaration of me,

finally me without having
to form a platform to perform
for I don't have to anymore.
Instead, I am home,
standing as I am,
feet firmly planted
on solid ground.

Convenience

Single woman
hedging her bets,
placing men in
compartments,
each male
serving a parti-
cular purpose,
never to extend
outside their box.
 
One for fun,
one for dinner,
one for outings,
one for sex,
or however
she chooses to
align it all for
her convenience.
 
But if one man
chooses his own
feelings over his
duty, her replies
turn cold, laying
down an icy path
for him to skate
back to home base.
 
His only choice:
stay or go.
stay and keep
his place for her
comfort or go
away, maybe for
another lady who’ll
appreciate him.

On A Hot Summer Night

 
You’re lying in bed
half-naked next to your
lover, counting the
beads of sweat collecting
on her chest.
 
The heat should make you
still, but after a mutual
look and a smile, you
move away from stillness
and into lovemaking.
 
The mix of
skin, sweat, and sheets
make the slow movement
of the digital clock on the
dresser disappear.
 
But as you open
your eyes to take in
another view of her, you
find yourself alone,
another dream
 
that was too painfully real.
The mix of
skin, sweat, and sheets
are not of love, but of
a constant tossing
 
and turning in your bed,
unable to sleep, awakening
to something unpleasant;
mind and body both miserable
on a hot summer night.

Home

“I never found a home in the arms of a man.”
            -Diane Keaton
 
 
I couldn’t explain to my friend
why I felt so pessimistic. 
She kept telling me there were
plenty of good women out there
as I tried to tell her
it’s not that simple. 
 
Maybe she believes in fairy tales,
or carries the power of prayer
in her pocketbook, or somehow
can see Lady Luck waving
her magic wand to find herself
a nice boyfriend.
 
Her cheery approach wasn’t helping
for I could tell a different tale,
one of feeling less than a man and
more like a commodity, simply
to be a male picked out to
play the role of man
 
in some woman’s stage play
of marriage.  It has unfolded
so much that I always
ask myself the same question:
What will I have to sacrifice
this time?
 
Maybe one day it all
works out, but I don’t wish
upon any stars.  I go on, but
always wondering if I’ll end up
like that actress, but instead
I find no woman’s arms
 
I can call home.

Tennis Is Not The Right Metaphor

You said
the ball was in your court
and you would
lob it back over.

I'm still waiting for you
to hit the ball back
so we can play this game
like it should be played.

A back and forth affair,
the exercise of
serving and returning,
verbal banter becoming

like rallies, our backhands
and forehands zipped
over the net as we
enjoy the court together.

But as I stand
at the ready, I see
nothing heading back to me.
This is not tennis.

This metaphor is a game
of catch.  So now I say this:
Throw the damn ball
or I'm going home.

Ronin

Ronin – a samurai warrior in feudal Japan without a master or lord.

I was supposed to fall on my sword
 
The Japanese call it seppuku:
honorable suicide;
when a samurai lost his master
he was supposed to die
for his knowledge of self
and his knowledge of the world
and his knowledge of the code
but without his master
made him dangerous.
 
But there were no swords for me
 
for I was not to be warrior.
I was to be a partner,
do my job and provide for my house,
teach the children well,
love my spouse,
and do this day in and
day out without complaints,
which meant the warrior that resided
within me had to die.
 
But I never committed seppuku.
 
I live my life by my
own standards, some learned
from elders and some
on my own. But that has made me
feel just like the ronin,
wandering about place to place,
causing some to be
uncomfortable simply by being
the man that I am
 
for the warrior in me is so many things.
 
A fighter and a lover,
a king and a magician,
dangerous and righteous,
sophisticated and vibrant,
living and loving fearlessly,
even embracing that hurt and pain
may loom in the distance.
But still I travel like a vagabond
hoping to find a place to call home
 
and be the samurai I yearn to be.

Look At Me

 
She developed faster than the other girls,
breasts and behind standing out like
neon signs shining at  night.
All the boys took a look,
including myself, the nerdy kid
hauling an oversized backpack
on my shoulders and an oversized
gut on my midsection, to and fro
across the middle school campus.
 
Look at me!!  Look at me!!
 
That's what I wanted to say,
the preteen experiencing his
first taste of infatuation, wondering
what I could possibly do
just to have a touch, but also knowing
that making honor roll and being
super responsive to a teacher's
calling out a question
would not do the trick.
 
Days in the fall were
the time for football, always noted
by the players wearing their
jerseys at school on game days,
baby blue meshings with white
numerals on the front and back.
Jerseys sauntered all around the
campus, dotting the student body
with blue dots, but these dots were not
 
worn by the players, for the jerseys were worn
by the girls, finding their boyfriends or friends
or soon-to-be friends, donning the baby blues,
making the players look like everyone one
as they simply wore their normal garb.
These girls pranced around campus,
princesses for the day, numbers
of the players adorned on their backs.
 
That girl I liked did like the others one day,
wearing my friend's number 88
all day, the eights jutting outward
across her young shapely torso.
And there I was with my
oversized backpack and
oversized gut unnoticed,
fading into the masses,
just another middle school student.
 
I cursed everyone that day.
I cursed my doctor for suggesting
that I shouldn't even play
for the simple reason that I was
going to grow faster than normal.
I cursed my parents for going along
with his opinions and
keeping me off the field.
I even cursed my friend for being on the team.
 
He was last string but on those days
even last string put you up front.
I cursed her for wanting to wear
a jersey from someone who
didn't even play.  And after
all that cursing, I felt this
surge of emotion swelling inside,
a force of nature that wanted to
call out to tell the world I existed
 
Look at me!!  Look at me!!
I got all my math problems right!
I spelled every word correctly
on my English paper!
I know where the cranium and
the clavicle are on the human body!
I know all about Jamestown!
Yo hablo español!
¿Como esta usted?!? Muy bien!
 
But the school bell rang.  Another period
done, time to move to the next.
Me and my oversized backpack
slung over my shoulders, me and my
oversized gut bulging from my midsection,
a kid lost among the masses, envying
the players on the football team,
wondering if one day somebody
would look at me. 

The Last Time

I don't know what it was.

It wasn't love.
It wasn't lust.
It wasn’t even sex.
 
I think it was one of those episodes
where two people were looking for
a physical touch just to break the cycle
of sameness in their lives. 
 
Feelings and intimacy were irrelevant,
just two bodies going through
adult motions all because
time allowed it.  But afterward,
 
I had to tell myself
We’re not doing this again.
 
Silence is what I need
as I drive back down the highway
trying not to think about
why I even drove up it:
 
Why did I converse with her?
Why did I even answer her
response on the online site?
Now I watch the trees

pass my forward vision and into

the sight of my rear view mirror,
no more memories to make.
Because I’m not going back.

Morning Time In The Office

The ladies all gather around their coworker and marvel
at the nice rock that adorns her finger.  They get
an infectious case of giddiness as she announces
that her boyfriend proposed to her.  Her moment
has the cubicle cheering and I'm starting to wonder:

Maybe I could chance it and scream out loud right now.
But I keep my mouth shut and speedwalk
past the celebration for I was in no mood
to smile and join in the festivities.
Call me a grumpy man if you want,

but I realized that stopping by to offer
the briefest of congratulations would only
prove to me that in this environment, my task here
is to go along with the flow.  In fact, that's my
only real task for the week.  Talk about vacations

and baseball games and upcoming projects.
Yesterday was the last day I got to be
outwardly honest for a while.  I shared
parts of myself with a lady in a downtown
coffee shop, things that I usually keep to myself

but somehow started to fall out of my mouth.
Maybe she brought a level of comfort
to the public atmosphere where we sat,
where I didn't have to worry about
keeping a public face and a calm demeanor.

I shared and she listened and I probably
could've gone on forever.  But closing time
stopped this makeshift nirvana from continuing.
We said our goodbyes and went along
our separate ways, and I knew

as I walked further down the city streets
heading toward my car to drive off
away from here onto my residence of
Suburbia that a moment like that
will have to last for a while.

Online Dating

She's thin.
She's pretty.
She's blond.
I told her not to worry.

I think she'll be fine
making an inquiry
to the world, letting
everyone know she's available.

Surely there will be the
unwanted come-ons of
the unattractive and unmannerable,
but she'll have many more options

than the rest of us.
She's been blessed with a
triple dose of attractive that
men will stop and check out.

Preppy

Blue dress shirt,
khaki pants,
beige loafers.

The uniform of
preppy men
never changes.

A sea of them
now approaches
and I find myself

laughing, young and old
dressed the same,
a single mode remaining

consistent through time.
Thankfully I was
never part of that crowd;

I have my own style,
sitting comfy, casually
smiling in my blue jeans.

Don't Bother Knockin'

I already know who she is.
She's that friend you
told me about who
saw me when I wasn't looking.
I knew it was her
when I happened to
peek out of my window and
saw her standing next to her car.
I thought to myself,

Damn.
She's as broke down as I thought.

Figured that
was going to be the case.
because I've learned that
just as attractive and classy
tends to attract
attractive and classy,
broke down
tends to attract
broke down
and I've always felt you
were broke down.

Of course,
I won't say that to you in public.
I'm a good neighbor.
I keep my mouth shut
and go about my business.
You told me one day
she had stopped by and
you weren't sure if you
should've come over and knocked.

I'm glad you didn't because
I hate to be cornered by desperation,
her desperation to find a man
and your desperation to help her out.

Let's be clear.
We're on different levels
and I'm not lowering
my standards for anybody.
So if you want to help,
tell her the bar is high and
her ass better start jumping.

Book Sale - Nice Guys Finish Last

BOOK SALE!! BOOK SALE!! Right now at Lulu.com, you can buy my book Nice Guys Finish Last for 20% off (original price $32.00). Just go to the site, select my book, and use the following coupon code:

TENYEAR

Sale lasts until Friday, May 18.

Mirror

Sometimes I look in the mirror
and I see a younger version of myself
staring back at me with a snicker,
wondering how the hell I got to be
so damn mellow, retiring
for evenings at the same time
he's ready to run the town.
I can see the youthful features of me
glowing in the mirror, looking
forward to blaze trails
across the great unknown.
He dares me to stop with
the suburban routines and just run,
run all day and night,
run up and down the streets and highways,
run until you drop,
and then just keep running.
But I have to tell him
time is moving on and
the days of youthful indiscretion
are things of the past.
His running then
has me here now
wondering if I could've been
somewhere else had he just
stopped and thought it over.
But it is what it is
and we are both here
staring at each other
forever connected.

Why I Don't Write Love Poems

I knew this would happen,
but didn't think it would be
here sitting in my office
on a typical Tuesday.

So here I go again
tearing myself to pieces
because I wrote
another one of those poems.

I should know by now
that when I write one,
my mind is never forward.
Looking back at her,

she may have been
the only one I ever loved.
The others
were something else.

Lust,
infatuation,
even wishful thinking;
they seem to fade away

as my words gravitate
toward her, leaving me
in the inevitable state of
bleeding all over myself,

the scars on my heart
reopened.  Good thing
here at work I can close the door
and turn my back on the world.

taking the time to close
all my wounds.  I know
the pain all too well;
my pen always leads me there.

Near The End (30 Poems in 30 Days)

Running out of words,
I see the end.  Finally
I can stop writing.

What To Do on Sunday Morning

Sunday morning.
Decisions, decisions.

Head to church and
pray for mercy and blessings,

or stay in, make some
pancakes, and watch

endless political banter.
Maybe I'll skip both and

just go somewhere,
anywhere.  As long

as it's out of this place.
Decisions, decisions.

Lazy Saturday

NFL Draft,
Hockey and basketball playoffs,
NASCAR race,
baseball game.

A whole day of TV
means zero things
get created and
written about.

Living the life of
a couch potato
wont get me where
I want to be as a writer.

So for laziness today,
I need punishment tomorrow
because stories
can't be told on their own.

The Draft

Nobody's playing,
but we will still watch
There won't be any
touchdowns or first downs,
but we will sit back
with our snacks and drinks
as if the clock reads
one o'clock on Sunday.
The tests and questions are over.
The scouting has been done.
The future now walks across the stage
to shake the commissioner's hand,
wearing a new hat,
displaying a new jersey.
Now it's time to get to work.
Armchair quarterbacks
cheer and boo their team's
choice in player,
telling anyone who will listen
what they would've done.
It doesn't matter now;
We all know what tonight means.
Football is coming.