Love Poem, After the 1996 Chicago Bulls
What’s a poem if not written with dribbled syllables about Jordan’s dynastic Bulls?
Before you, I lived my life as a Wennington:
I was just this big ol’ gumpy mediocre white guy.
Longingly did I hope to one day long, Longley-esque,
though my true desires resided Down Under the words I spoke.
Of course I did wonder if I was past my prime,
an aged spider, like Salley, struggling to weave a web.
Or perhaps my stroke was still smooth and pure, albeit limited.
Sure, sure, this sort of thinking did o-Kerr to me.
Then you arrived, from foreign lands, a Kukoc from Croatia.
Suddenly I wanted to travel everywhere with you.
You were Harper in the streets, Rodman in the sheets.
Your fingernails tattooed my body, which rebounded for more.
And when the doubters came, I defended us
like a six-ring’d, wingspan’d Scottie, fluke migraine and all.
Our partnership was a Tex Winter production,
a triangular triumph: you plus me plus us could not be stopped.
Sometimes you were the Zen master, with your infinite wisdom.
Sometimes I was the Zen master, with my super-gross beard.
You carried yourself with an Air of dictionary excellence.
The thought of losing you could make me collapse into sobs.
And so now, reading over what I just wrote…
Can I say it? I will say it. Babe? We the G.O.A.T.
