To be 9 and 3 in early December––as a Bills fan––it feels to me like a WWII homecoming: something meant for only me: the soldier of God’s favorite dream who, at least until the parade transpires, seems infallible and weaved of grace. I’m gonna hit the streets like a hobo on Christmas morning. I’m gonna dig my hands into an open can of beans. I’m gonna stalk the open ghetto like a tiger in tall grass. I’m gonna snatch some braud up on the street, and like a fastball seeking history, I’m gonna make her my spontaneous lover; in black and white for all to see, or maybe sepia, I’ll bend her back over my arm, make one leg lift but not to flee, and I’ll suck her nursey face with everything I got, for my grandchildren to one day read. And she––this random hit for my disease––she’ll be gracious for my passion, like the sea for life, despite never again shall she come to meet, a man made of myths as complete as these. So. Indeed. As we creep upon the 12th man’s endzone, or the playoffs as that means, I find I think more than I act, as if I’ve been there, yes before, just like the proverbial class acts who, recovering racists clearly love, but in my mind I feel like I’m TO; my gold jacket is a tear-fed rose. Can you smell what 9 and 3 is cooking? It’s cooking civic pride, and nothing more.