It was like throwing hockey pucks at the wall watching shadows dance where holes crashed through. Don’t know where poems like this take me; a random line beating distantly through my head, screams of announcers, goalies sliding across ice.
It’s messed up but that’s the way
it seems some days, 4 a.m. coffee,
lyrics of words and stories untold,
fabricated, unfold.
Sometimes falling. Sometimes there.
Sometimes anywhere.
One by one, holes smash circles in shadows of my room. I don’t know why I’m still here tonight.
I don’t know why I bother staying
when it could be better to leave; guess I still believe something will change. It’s like an old hockey sweater dusty in the closet cause the team hasn’t won in so damn long.
Victory seems decades off. Turn back on crossroads by the outdoor rink where winters spent send shivers through the spine. You can’t go back.
Figure eights intricate on ice,
precious little girls graceful in frigid dances,
hard-hitting boys throwing friends to the boards sip hot chocolate from the same mug later,
buried in knit sweaters and blankets.
I will be leaving sooner or later
but some images stay forever. You can’t speed down an empty highway covered in ice.
You get nowhere. I guess I’m going on and on,
doing that too much these days.
Rear view mirrors fogged; sometimes you’re not
meant to look back.
I still believe in old-time glory days,
throwback sweaters, Dryden masks, Clancy handshakes.
I do what I can, though sometimes fighting is too much.
I’d rather deke it past your glancing eyes. Sometimes you’re in too deep. Sometimes you’re falling. Sometimes life is as simple
as throwing hockey pucks at the wall.
