I sometimes wish I were a burly man,
Made one with those big hosses on the field
In khakis and a golf shirt, shoulders back
And beefy arms crossed beefily atop
My gut: ex-player, aging jock, at home
At all home games. I sometimes wish I drawled.
O for that heft! O for that certitude!
That right is might so might’s for right, and Christ
Adores the USA, and private property,
Good defense, and the South; and heaven will
Be like a family dinner, gathered ‘round
Celestial tables: not a reaping, not
A nullifying shock, a melting down
Into the All, the universal Love.
