Who fought the Bills from Buffalo that cold
and snow-swept day in eighty what was it?
Remember frigid air, icy fluff throwed
by cruel spun winds, our skipants’ rustling slips.

So sat we down on plastic pillows square
atop aluminum bench. Far below
some tiny figures bunch up, slide out, dare
amazing feats unseen but, trusting, known.

Thick-parka’d fans on every side, I hear–
behind, one level up,–two beards agree
that I, the little guy, too scarfed to cheer,
am tough, would tough it to finality.

Thank you, Mr. Baker, for taking us.
But why would anyone, unless they must,
do such a thing?

AMW

[Bartleby’s Poetry Corner]