Forsaking my blame
with a baseball bat,
dust panning up pieces,
and taking them with me.

Will I make it there?
No you say.
OK with me.
I’ll ask you later.
And then I’ll think to stick around.

A cold beer sweats in my hand.
Trying hard to be social…
In a collegiate manner…
I gulp it down in three exchanges.

“How about those [insert football team]”
Ugh. The death of me.
And I lenjoy football
I really do but cannot relate
with these bleacher jocks
and their tales of high school glory.

Somewhat tragic it is
because I chose to be this —
not a bull in a china shop
but a faberge egg in a rodeo
now spilling my yolk down a drain,
trying to escape.
The classiest exit there is.