A Hockey Pome

Wings of red,
puck of black; white ice.
Empty ice.
Lines in color,
red line and blue.
Yet not so blue as I;
game off...game off.
Lord Stanley's silver mug
dry and empty in locked case
forgotten, forlorn...for what?
Vendors of Molson try to explain
in vain...
in vain as they look for work
in the cold Ottawa spring.
And only the highlight reel still plays:
slapshot rising, Yzerman gliding, Orr flying
through the Garden air
and landing there, where
the red light reflected off
the ice in the corner as
he carved his name
in the granite memory
of the game
which will one day rise again
like the phoenix,
even in Phoenix,
and the penalty box will release
its captive in time for
another round of the 30 day war,
the playoff beard, the handshake after,
the gap-toothed quaff of the champion nectar
before the Cup once again finds its way on a
summertime jaunt to Moose Jaw, Duluth,
Trois Rivers and Prague.