Friday Night Lights

Walking the dog 

at the end of another workweek. 

Quiet night in the suburbs, 

the very reason we try to afford 

to raise our kids here. 

Just the right amount of chill in the air, 

light jacket weather always my favorite. 

The local high school’s a mile away, 

play by play from the loudspeaker 

distorted by distance just enough 

that the announcer seems to be narrating 

the progress of our evening walk, 

the cadence, the turns, 

soon segueing into color commentary 

of choices I’ve made in the game of life. 

I should mention I’m precisely 

at the perfect point of inebriation, 

balloon-buoyant and warm, 

hard edges of the world gone fuzzy. 

I wait until Friday night to drink, 

practice keeping me closer to my playing weight, 

five and a half days of abstinence 

rendering a quicker, cost-effective buzz. 

Through illuminated windows I scout 

other players as I always do. 

Though no doubt we’re similar enough, 

running essentially the same gameplan, 

I always feel like the visiting team. 

Walking past the bigger houses, 

the stadium crowd erupts, 

and I don’t know if I’m winning or losing. 

How hard, still, to heed the old coach’s advice: 

forget the crowd, the score, 

focus on how you play the game. 

As a boy on the farm, 

all I wanted was a day to break free, 

open field to run with my dog, 

at the end of the game return 

to a home that felt like mine. 

True, the GM keeps us on a short leash these days, 

but as the wind begins to whip from the north, 

rules like mortgages make more sense, 

and as we come upon the lights of our own home, 

the dog begins to celebrate with shivers of joy. 

Though I know the game is rigged, 

still I pause at the open entrance, 

soaking in the light and warmth pouring over us, 

in recognition of another homecoming victory, 

a Gatorade bath, if you will, of gratitude. 

BOYD BAUMAN grew up on a small ranch south of Bern, Kansas, his dad the storyteller and mom the family scribe. His books of poetry are Cleave and Scheherazade Plays the Chestnut Tree Café. After stints in New York, Colorado, Alaska, Japan, and Vietnam, Boyd now is a librarian and writer in Kansas City. Visit at boydbauman.weebly.com.