Prolate Spheroid

Krista Lukas




Football is a complex
game of strategy
full of plays
I don’t appreciate.
To me, one scene compares
closely with the next:
men in tights chase a ball
and each other. Two sit
across from an alien exec
who keeps repeating “Fed Ex”
since that’s all you need to know.
They do group hugs, dog piles.
A schnauzer bites a man’s crotch
at the command “Budweiser,”
which sends the victim’s beer sailing
into the master’s hands.
Short bursts of helmet crashing
follow a woman with near bare breasts
who promises, “See you at half time.”
A donkey interviews
with the Clydesdales to help pull
the Budweiser wagon for those
unconvinced by the crotch bite.
Officials deliberate, one of them
announces the call: booming words
accompany mysterious hand signals,
and Charmin trails from a coach’s pants.
Women with pom-poms cheer,
others play bikini volleyball
on a snow-covered beach to prove
Visa really can buy anything.
After a Hail Mary pass, children
must eat soap for saying “Holy Shh…”
about the new Chevrolet convertible.
A fake punt fails,
but it’s the old couple who fight
over the Frito Lays
who get to me. I never liked chips
and suddenly I want some.