As the Olympics break for a commercial,
my "I" opens the screen and--
in the Zen of flipping--
tosses the lighted cigar
over a wrought iron railing
into the exact spot intended,
short of plant growth,
a bare spot of soil
in the ceremonial garden.
I give myself a ten.
A nine-point-nine would be acceptable.
Neatnik of late, I start to position the mug
on the Best American Essays of 1990,
then remove the possibility
of a damp ring of stain.
I was thinking as I watched a woman cry,
as her son finished sixth in some swimming event,
something caustic, like, how childish!
Then Bob Costas remarked,
what I had overlooked before:
the swimmer's father had died on opening day,
watching his son in the parade.
I was thinking as I watched a lady cry, how gauche.
How blau, how brillig blue and bright and rose