There’s a city out there
he wants to be part of .
Its skyscrapers jagged edges
etch their way across his mind.
From the tenement top
he can almost touch them.
Leaning an inch, two, three,
too far, he’s falling , falling
Frantically,
pin-wheeling arms
throw him back to try
in desperation, driving him, again
and again, until fatigue defeats him.
Then with arms hugging folded knees in despair,
he watches darkness descending
on a dimming distant skyline.
He’s an Armchair Quarterback,
the best in the league
He’s played in every Superbowl
and won some in overtime.
He’s handed it off to Czonka
and thrown touchdowns to Swann.This Sunday afternoon he’ll do it all again.
But when the game is over leaning back in the armchair,
he feels the years catching up, while youthfulness pours out.Like an open field runner, running out of gas
Too many hard hits, warm six packs take their toll
Battling late into twilight a table lamp by the armchair spots the room,
six o’clock sports lull him to sleep of future seasons, dreams of glory.
Where dreams of future dreams are all the dreams there are.
When I was a kid I was a master of dreams,
a hero for the common cause.But growing up under the reality’s dead weight,
dreams break. And whiledreams make fools of wise men.
Fatigue makes cowards of us all.
