Goal!
I wrote my love along a napkin on
A restaurant table. Others watched a match
On artificial turf. They watched brawn,
And I wrote poetry, though just a smatch
Of it, a sonnet meant to be about
That thing men worship when they’re not
Involved with power and do not have a snout
In money’s trough, and when their souls aren’t fraught
With death and all that stuff. I wrote of you
(Of you and me) and thought of scoring, sweat,
Affection, passion—even God. Thus through
My joy I never even thought, “Regret.”
A napkin feels the stain of semen, part
Desire, part Christ—the share that makes your heart.