Modified on a Cocktail Napkin

My Quarterback arrives

eighteen years too late.

I played Left Tackle;

poorly watched his blind side.

Here at the gin mill

I can defend him even less.

It's every man for himself

and the ball's knocked loose

for a fumble--

as it always has been

though they never told us.

He leaves before I can buy him a drink

to apologize for those sacks I let slip.

There were a lot.

I wonder if he still gets headaches.

I watch him ascend the staircase

but can't recall which number

he wore between his shoulder blades.

Eighteen more years

and the squandered college funds

of the kids we'll never 

put on the field.

One of these days

we'll laugh about it.

Until then there's the tonic.