Fat Texas Irish in ten dollar tees drink lemonade
out of the buffet of their thinning wallets.
Children come, wearing hand-me-down Nikes--
Parmesan shakers clenched like maracas
in their arthritic orchestra of knobby joints.
My face recoils into a relaxed wish
to scratch myself against a tree,
out of all this March Madness,
and dribble my desires into a dentist's basin
of drooled numb petrification.
People silently wave. I hate my life.
The children stumble, cradling handheld video-
games like nests with blue, broken eggs.