Pregame ritual
Here in the basement of the Espresso Royale
on Sixth Street in this land grant university town,
amid English Fog lattes and keypad-clatter,
in the afternoon before the all-hallows-eve in which Katie,
a great-great-et-cetera granddaughter
of the townswoman they hanged for the crime
of witchcraft, will play a game—homo ludens—
of volleyball against the maize-and-blue Michigan Wolverines
I draft a missive to the good citizenry of Dorchester as though they might yet
happen upon these words,
as though their revivified selves were a short gallop
from this latitude and longitude, as though their sins
of omission and commission might still be forgiven—
not just forgotten—by an act of penance that includes
a pilgrimage to tonight’s venue and a maniacal cheering
for this descendent as she executes (I didn’t invent the language)
a perfect play that culminates in (really, I didn’t) a kill.
Full stop because
I don’t know how to end this letter.
So I do what
I always do:
continue breaking
lines
and staggering
down the page until
it’s time to witness
more volleyball and cheer like nothing
else ever happens or matters.