The Miami Orange Bowl,
where men of the gridiron played
in a structure of steel,
spectators stomped our wild delight
until bleacher seats vibrated,
the metal stadium rang,
the field rumbled,
the rare times the Dolphins scored.
112 degrees on the field,
the new fake grass
turned an unnatural blue,
turned slick and slippery underfoot.
Our opponents slid and fell.
Drunk fan yelled: “Yay, Poly-Turf!”
On touchdowns
the porpoise flipped and thrilled
above a tiny pool.
Cigar smoke
drifted toward the tropic sky,
a sweet and fruity scent.
A losing team,
no sense of hope,
until the new quarterback,
until the new coach.
Stadium attendance swelled.
“Today’s capacity: 80,010.”
Drunk fan yelled: “And two Baltimore fans!”
Now packed shoulder to shoulder,
fans dressed in orange and teal,
the metal din deafening teams
of silver and black, silver and gold.
We reveled in the undefeated season.
Post game, the stadium empty,
an evening breeze picked up.
Empty Zum-Zum cups fluttered
like the brush of doves’ wings
before they are released
into a hush of eternal greatness.
