the day we lost the stanley cup

would that we knew nothing
of sixty silent years

against a long, perfect season

of lower-case capitals, a flick
of the wrong wrist

puck white against the black

so close could taste, of iron
in the blood, a blue line

of the heart

so what of next year

a spring of perpetual blame
that could lose us all to hockey


June/July 2003
www.track0.com/rob_mclennan