Three am is a cruel master
a Linotype of unproofread demands
upon a fading acetate papyrus mind.
Too hard to enjoy March Madness this year-
too much shock and awe madness of marches.
Your wife in bed, dreaming of
Warthogs, full metal, Tomahawks, Kalishnakovs,
not spelled correctly in her dreams.
She radiates a sadness for losses read.
Earlier, without the children, you both drank
jello shots, margaritas, jagger.
She stares at the full breasts of the bartender.
You watch the tournament games.
Throw down spicy olives, pimentos,
artificial red cherries, Nuts and Berries
the Bulldogs beat the Bulldogs
the Cats survived an upset scare.
She remains in shock and awe
at the perfect round breasts, the fastidiousness
of her movements.
The logic of tight read pants
and the principles of athletic legs.
Before it all started, I forgot to fill
in my brackets.
USA verses Iraq on center court
played on all the major channels.
A Briere de Mars to wash down
a Spanish Green moss in my throat
Schweinfurt or Shamrock
an apple seed refusing to grow
through spring
the winter a
controlled chaos amid
the idiots smiles
of full-court press.
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