04-21-2015, 02:31 AM
Hypnagogic Jerk
I’ve been called many names,
but never been so affronted
as when that blonde-haired-blue-eyed “doctor”
in the Emergency Room
tossed insult upon injury;
saying it took a certain kind of jerk
to murder his own foot in his sleep.
It was World Cup 1990;
Waddle blasted it over the bar,
through the atmosphere and into space,
into history; the Germans would do it again.
Poor Chris watched it looped on the news.
I fell asleep to the footage, twelve ciders deep on the couch.
I remember approaching the ball with speed
and envisioning the net just barely absorbing
the full weight of my intent.
The corner
of my cut-glass
coffee table
ripped my foot into bloody red ribbons,
as if lions had been at it.
I was still wearing the blood-and cider-soaked strip
when the doctor finally had a look.
The bugger asked me if I’d seen the game.